


Invisible Kid

by Mrstserc



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrstserc/pseuds/Mrstserc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weechesters. Dean is nine (almost 10) and Sammy is five when John doesn't come home on time from a hunt. The Winchesters must face many obstacles before they are reunited. I do not own any rights to Supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**"Invisible Kid" by Metallica**

_“Invisible kid_

_Never see what he did_

_Got stuck where he hid_

_Fallen through the grid_

_Invisible kid_

_Got a place of his own_

_Where he'll never be known_

_Inward he's grown_

_Invisible kid_

_Locked away in his brain_

_From the shame and the pain_

_World down the drain_

_Invisible kid”_

. . . . . . .

Just before the sky dimmed for the night, the tiny old woman walks out to the sidewalk in front of the cabin rental office just outside Mason City, Iowa; she’s carrying a snow shovel and squinting over at the older of the two boys staying in unit eight on the end. He is nine, she knows because she asked. “I’m almost ten, Ma’am” he’d added jutting out his chin when she came looking for his father.

The tall dark-haired man had checked in with his two boys at the beginning of the November and paid for two weeks. Well, rent had come due two days ago, but there’s still no sign of that big black car. She doesn’t want any trouble – hasn’t had any from the boys – but she’s starting to worry. Starting to think she should call the cops or protective services, but most people in this part of Iowa tend to mind their own business, not act like a busybody, but she really can’t remember last time she saw the dad.

“Want me to do that for you, Ma’am?” She startles. While she was thinking the boy had stopped messing with his shoe, looks like duct-taping a blowout by the toes, and has come up next to her. He gently disengages the shovel from her hand and starts scraping the thin layer of snow and ice from the walkway. “It’s easier for me. I’ll salt it for you too, if you’d like.”

“You can’t keep staying here for free.” Her grumbling comes out harsher than she intended. The boy looks up, eyes sparkling green with unshed tears and fear. He ducks his head back and shovels faster, better, more carefully while he thinks.

“I’m a good worker, ma’am. I could work for you. My dad’ll…” He has to pause to swallow because he’s holding back tears. “Dad will be back soon. I’ll work. I just can’t leave with Sammy. He’s just five.”

“What’s your name, boy?” She asks, and with a little earnest conversation she strikes a deal with Dean. One of the renters left late today, after her cleaning girl had left. Once he finishes shoveling, he’s to come see her in the office. If he and his brother want to keep occupying a room, the boy is going to earn his way. “I’m not a charity,” she grumbles.

Half an hour later, the old lady walks the young boy to unit five and unlocks the door. “You strip the bed while I go get towels and sheets. And you gather the trash. I’ll be back with cleaners for the bathroom, too.” She looks him over; he’s a little small for his age, but she’s seen his work ethic, taking care of his brother, gathering cans and bottles for the recycling refunds, school every day. It’s a lot more than she’d expect of someone as young as him.

When she gets back with the cart, he’s done everything she asked. She notices the last people left a few food items and that the boy, Dean, has piled them separately from the trash. He takes the clean towels and cleanser and disappears into the bathroom. She sorts out clean sheets, but before she can make the bed on her own, he’s back standing on the other side helping. She perches in the chair and watches him finish, even running the vacuum.

When he finishes, the old lady is pleasantly surprised. It’s as good as it gets around here. The boy even gathers the trash, and he sees her notice he’s kept the old food separate. He ducks his head, and then with his face a bit red he raises it up to look her in the eye. “Is it okay if I keep the food, Ma’am?”

“I don’t care what you do with it. Would just go into the trash if I took it.”

Dean hefts the trash in one hand and his small stash of edibles in the other before slipping out the door with a quiet goodbye. His smile melts her heart a little, but makes her worry more. She might not turn him in to protective services yet, but now she’s worried that the kids might be going hungry. And he’s out there with holes in his shoes, a hoodie for warmth, and no gloves while shoveling snow. She decides she needs to talk to someone, starting with Mable at the Get’n Go on the corner.

. . . . . . .

Dean comes back into the little cabin where Sam is curled up in a blanket on the couch with his picture book, television on to some sitcom as background noise. “Hey, Sammy. You doing okay?” He moves to his brother and tousles his little brother’s too long hair. His hand lingers in his brother’s hair, and Sammy leans into like a cat for a moment before pulling away complaining that Dean’s fingers are cold.

“You were gone a long time. Dean. I was scared.” Sam sniffles a little. Dean mumbles an apology into the floppy hair and Sam smiles and snuggles closer. “I’m still hungry, Dean. Is there any more soup?”

Dean brightens; he loves that he has a surprise for his little brother. “No more soup, but I got you something.” Dean goes over where he’d put the stuff he scavenged from the vacated cabin down. He pulls out the heel from the partial loaf of bread and spreads one small apple jelly packet over it. “Bread and jelly, Sammy. Eat up.” Dean watches proudly as Sam eats and licks his fingers after. “Now let me go run ya a bath before bed. We’ve got school tomorrow.”

Dean moves toward the bathroom, and Sam follows. The older brother has to pull down socks and underwear he had left drying after rinsing out in the tub yesterday. Laundry needs are becoming a problem. So is the lack of money for food and rent; even with Dean and Sam collecting bottles and cans on the way home from school every day. So far though, Dean has been managing to keep them fed. The lady at the corner store had pointed out the dented can section and let him buy those cans at two for the price of one.

Dad will be back soon. He promised, and he made Dean promise to take care of his little brother. Dean doesn’t want to let Dad down; he’d been so upset and drinking so much right after they got here. Dad had been muttering about five years and Mary before he took off. He may even have been crying, but Dean doubts it. Dad tells him crying’s for babies.

Once Dean has Sam bathed and dressed, he reads him a story and tucks him into bed. The nine year old then checks and touches up his salt lines, cleans up the dishes, packs a lunch of jelly sandwich for Sam, rinses out the socks and underwear the boys wore that day and pours himself a glass of water from the faucet to quiet his rumbling stomach. Only then does Dean sit down to do his own homework, using his pocket knife to sharpen the stub of pencil he has left. Tomorrow he’ll make a point of finding a new pencil, and one for Sammy. Some kid’ll drop one, or he’ll just steal it. Sam said he needed one earlier and Dean doesn’t want his brother to go without.

. . . . . . .

It’s an unofficial committee of old busy-body biddies who watch the older boy guide his bundled up little brother to school the next morning. Amanda Marvin, the old lady from the cabin rentals, Mable Emery, whose son manages the Git’n Go, and their friend, Irene Potts, who takes in laundry and manages the little Washerteria, have convened to discuss what to do about the seemingly forgotten boys. They’ve tutted over Amanda’s description of what happened last evening, and how the dad seems to have run off. Mable tells them how she’s been cashing in their recycled cans and bottles and directing them to dented cans. Irene says the older boy rooted through her trash quietly collecting some laundry soap.

“Just don’t seem right,” Amanda Marvin gripes. “Thanksgiving is just a couple days away.” She sucks on her false teeth a little. “He seems like a pretty good kid, but I don’t think it’s right, him not even having gloves or a jacket in this weather. And I think they’re hungry.” She trails off lost in thoughts of her own childhood hunger. Her dad had been a drinker who tended to go on benders. She suspects that’s what is happening to these boys too, but they don’t even have a mother to soften the blow.

Her friends are used to her grumbling, but they also know she has a kind heart. The three makes plans about maybe having another room ready for him to clean if the dad doesn’t get back today. Mable says she could donate some food, including a box of cereal and a carton of milk the boy could find and keep when he cleans the room. Irene says she knows she can find a pair of gloves and warm socks that they can put in the room like the previous tenants had left them behind. She’s going to look through lost and found and see if maybe she can find a jacket too. The three are engrossed in their planning and don’t notice the minister from the local bible church standing next to them listening.

“Well, I’m not sure that’s the right thing to do.” The older ladies startle when Reverend Wright chimes in. “If these kids have been abandoned, we need to call the proper authorities.” But the older women convince him to wait and at least meet the boys first.

. . . . . . .

It’s been getting harder to find bottles and cans on the way back from school since it snowed. Dean doesn’t know if that’s because they’re hidden under the white layer or because fewer people are drinking cold stuff now that the weather is so nippy, but he keeps looking. Sammy has been chattering away about the pilgrim pageant his kindergarten class had, and how people had brought treats to share. The little boy is excited about the holiday in two days – Dean’s forehead creases as he starts worrying about letting Sammy down. Right now he has four cans for refund; that’s not even enough for a can of soup.

Maybe Dad will be there, Dean tells himself. Maybe he’s already there waiting for us, and he tugs at his little brother’s mittened hand to try to make him move a little faster. But as they get closer to the cabins, Dean sees there’s no big black car, and that old lady Marvin is standing outside waiting. He gulps down his fear. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she kicks them out before Dad gets back.

. . . . . . .

John Winchester settles his broken leg trussed in old sticks and tied with strips from his t-shirt carefully in front of him. By the scratches he has been making in the dust in the floor of the cave in the Ozark Mountains, he knows he’s been gone from his boys too long, that Dean doesn’t have enough money to keep them in the cabin and probably not enough for food either. He takes out the picture he carried in his wallet and brushes his thumb across the faces of his sons.

“Oh, Mary, I really screwed up this time.”


	2. Chapter 2

Nov. 1, 1988

John Winchester feels like his skin is crawling and some kind of cat has its claws dug into his stomach from the inside. He can hardly breathe sitting there in a cheap cabin outside of Mason City, Iowa, watching the clock tick towards midnight – to the five-year anniversary of Mary’s death. He ponders this as he swigs rotgut whiskey and laughs at how old he feels in a bitter way. Next month, he’ll turn 34. The month after, Dean will be ten. And Sammy, his baby, is five and a half tomorrow.

John knows he’s already had too much to drink when he snorts and the whiskey goes up his nose, almost choking him.  Sammy isn’t really *his* baby, not that he’s claiming he ain’t the father, but Sam is Dean’s baby. Dean latched on to Sam, and vice-versa, right after Mary died. They came together like two iron filings stuck to a magnet, and John doesn’t envy anyone who tries to come between them.

He wishes he had had a brother like Dean after his Dad left. It was just him and his mom for a long time, and John spent most of his time when he wasn’t in school in the house alone because his mother needed to work. He hadn’t wanted that for his boys, and this life sure wasn’t what he and Mary had planned. Mary – God, the thought of her death still cuts. And how she died. And what he found out about afterward, the monsters, the demons. No amount of alcohol makes it better.

The boys are in bed, supposedly asleep, but John can tell that Dean has his eye on his dad. The boy’s going to end up with an ulcer the way he worries. Good thing the kid’s already a good shot and took to unarmed combat like an old hand, otherwise his “momming” everyone around him might be taken for weakness, and his boys can’t afford to be weak. Weak will equal death.

“Go to sleep, Dean.” John’s a little surprised about how slurred his words are, and amused as the nine-year-old’s eyelids tighten, as he continues to pretend he’s sleeping. And John makes the decision to leave now, earlier than he needs to for his hunt, because it’s not good getting drunk and maudlin in front of his kids. He knows because he’s done it, and Dean had to take care of him. It makes him scared that he’ll lose his older son’s respect.

“I’ve got a hunt down in Missouri, Dean. Little salt and burn. I expect you to make sure you boys get to school and eat right.” John pauses and looks over at Dean, “You hear me boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Comes the quiet voice from under the covers, and he sees Dean peering out at him with Mary’s eyes, and it all just hurts too much. Five years tomorrow. Five years since that demon sonofabitch killed her, and left John to try to muddle through the best he could.

“This one’s a paying gig, Dean. So I really need to take it. I’ve left some food money on the top of the ‘frig. Don’t be wasting it on candy.” John walks over and ruffles Dean’s hair. “I should be back in a week or so. I expect you to look after your brother.”

John barely hears his son’s answer as he gathers up his duffel to leave.

. . . . . . .

Nov. 23, 1988

“…And the pilgrims learned how to fix corn and cook wild turkey from the Natives.” Sam is just finishing up telling Dean all about his kindergarten class’s Thanksgiving pageant, every single minute of it Dean’s sure, as they finishing walking home from school.

Dean is holding Sammy’s hand tightly as he draws closer to where the landlady is leaning on a snow shovel waiting for them. Dad has been gone twenty-two days now. The rent on the room is two days past due. He’s not sure what he’s going to feed Sam tonight, and he’s cold and wet. The snow has turned slushy and seeped into his shoes. Dean draws himself up, lifts his chin, blinks his eyes and promises himself he won’t cry no matter what happens.

“Boy, this snow needs shoveling, and I’ve got two rooms need cleaning.” Her tone softens as she turns toward the younger one, who steps back behind his brother, big hazel eyes blinking shyly. “I’m Mrs. Marvin, that’s what you should call me, and what’s your name?” She moves a little closer, and it’s hard to tell whether Dean is moving to block her or Sammy clinging to him is making him turn.

“This is my brother, Sam.” Dean nods. “Sam. Be polite.” Sam steps out halfway and holds his hand out to shake, like Dean taught him. Mrs. Marvin holds the mittened hand a moment before turning back to the older boy.

“Well, are you planning to earn your keep?” She challenges Dean.

He throws off his worries for a moment and meets her eyes. Letting him work means she’s not throwing them out today, and Dad might be back tomorrow. It’s going to be Thanksgiving; Dad might be back for it. All Dean has to do is keep holding on one day at a time. Besides, yesterday the room had food. If these do, he’ll have something to feed Sammy for dinner. Maybe breakfast too, and with no school he’ll have time to look for more cans. “Yes, Ma’am. Just let me get my brother settled and I’ll be right out.”

By the time Dean finishes shoveling and salting the walkway, Mrs. Marvin is back to lead him to the other cabins. “I could use some help tomorrow, too.” She says, explaining her regular lady doesn’t want to work on the holiday. The cabins are pretty messy, but by the time Dean has them straightened, he also has an opened box of cereal and half carton of milk, an unopened can of spaghetti, an almost full orange juice bottle, a small jar of peanut butter, four eggs, and half a loaf of bread. He can’t believe people would be so wasteful. There’s even a pair of gloves left behind that Mrs. Marvin tells him he might as well keep.

Dean’s smile is huge when he pushes into the room with Sam to show him everything, but it gets bigger when his little brother takes out the snacks he was given at his class party that he saved to share with his brother.

“Look, Dean. There’s two cookies, and some M&M’s. They’re your favorites.” Sammy’s delight is written all over his face. He’s a smart kid and he can tell that they’ve been running low of food. He’d been waiting since right after lunch to surprise his brother.

Dean cups Sammy’s face with one hand a minute, smiling back. “Let me get this stuff away, and we’ll eat. Then we can share your treats for dessert. There’s no school tomorrow, so if you want we can find a show to watch on TV, or I’ll read you your favorite story.”

“Dean? When’s Daddy going to be home?” Sam pesters his brother while Dean puts things in the ‘frig and washes out a saucepan before opening the canned spaghetti. Dean puts the milk away for breakfast and pours two glasses of juice. Putting away what is left in the bottle, wondering if he shouldn’t just add water to make it last longer. But he decides to go ahead and splurge. It might help with how scratchy his throat is starting to feel.

But he’s a little less worried. He knows he can fix three meals with what he collected today. It’s nice to not have to worry that they won’t eat tomorrow. Maybe if he can find plenty of cans tomorrow, he’ll be able to buy two pieces of chicken from the Git’N Go for a special Thanksgiving meal. Then he remembers that Mrs. Marvin says she needs his help again, and he starts daydreaming about what types of things people might leave in their rooms. A pie would be nice.

“Dean. You’re not listening.” Sammy whines, and Dean ducks his head. Sam’s right, he wasn’t.

“Sorry, squirt. What did you say?” Dean turns an indulgent eye toward his little brother.

“I said I want to find a holiday special movie with a family having Thanksgiving like your ‘spose to.” Sam sniffs at him. His chin gives a little wobble. “How come we can’t be like that, Dean?”

Dean sighs. Before Sam started kindergarten, he never complained about not living like all the other kids. Dean’s getting to the point where he wishes no one in school ever talked about how holidays were supposed to be or how families were supposed to act. It’s hard enough trying to take care of his little brother without everything else telling Sam that Dean’s doing it wrong. He picks up the bowls to do dishes. “Sam, just go put your pajamas on. As soon as I’m finished cleaning up, we’ll find some kind of show.”

. . . . . . .

Nov. 6, 1988

The vengeful spirit was as easy to dispatch as John thought it would be, and he had a couple hundred dollars in his pocket. The money would come in handy because Dean was outgrowing his shoes and needed a new winter jacket. Seems like one or the other of the boys always needed new clothes. John pushed into a bar in Waynesville, Missouri, and thought twice about trying to increase his wages by hustling pool. Most of the guys in here looked like soldiers from nearby Fort Leonard Wood. John didn’t want to con them.

John was looking to meet up with another hunter here anyway. He had checked in with Bill Harvelle to let him know he had taken care of the job, and to thank him again for throwing a paying one his way, when Harvelle told him there was a hunter asking for help with something in the Mark Twain National Forest area. John was the closest hunter to the guy, he said. Once John agreed, Harvelle wished him luck and invited him and the boys to Nebraska afterwards to have Thanksgiving with his wife and little girl.

John had said he’d think about it, but he wasn’t really planning to. It hurt too much to see how in love Bill and Ellen were. Reminded him too much of Mary. Besides, Pastor Jim Murphy, his old Marine Corps buddy, had been pestering him to come to Minnesota. That’s where he’s been heading before getting sidetracked.

“You John Winchester?” The man asking had old-time hunter written all over him, and John wondered if this guy was going to be okay with John’s methods. A lot of the older guys just went in guns blazing without doing any research first. John liked to know everything he could about what was going on before going after whatever was causing problems.

It didn’t take long for John to have picked the other hunter’s brain about what was going on, and the guy, Paul Robertson, was surprised but okay with John wanting to do some research first. He had already lost his partner to something that was killing campers, he wanted to stay alive.

John thought about calling the cabin to check in with the boys, but he figured they were okay and he was still well within the timeframe he had given Dean. Pretty soon John got caught up listening to Robertson tell the tale of a hunt gone wrong. He was racking his brain trying to think of what kind of monster they were going after, and agreeing that it might be good to call in at least a couple more guys.


	3. Chapter 3

Sheltering just inside a moist warm laundry mat with a clear view of the cabins, the neighborhood old biddy committee convenes on the holiday morning to discuss the fact that the two young brothers in Cabin 8 are now facing Thanksgiving alone with little food and no money. There’s still no sign of that big black car with the gruff, dark-haired man that would signal that the boys’ father had made it back. The Winchesters’ temporary landlady, Amanda Marvin, has just finished telling Mable and Irene how excited the older boy was to discover the food supplies and gloves they had seeded the empty cabins with for him to find while he cleaned.

“Dean’s going to shovel for you again today, isn’t he?” Mable from the Git’n Go asks, and when she gets confirmation she devises a plan to drop a five dollar bill on the sidewalk where he’ll find it. Irene says she’ll wait until he’s finished shoveling the walks around the cabin and offer him cash to do the one in front of the laundry mat. Mable also hands over today’s supplies to be conveniently left inside a cabin: jelly, bread, a couple apples, four individual serving size boxes of cereal, more milk.

Irene throws in a couple of candy bars from the snack machine, but Amanda says no one leaves candy behind. The women look over the small haul sadly. It’s not much food, but they’re trying to make it believable as left behind items. Irene adds a couple pairs of warm socks that have been left behind at her laundry mat and an old flannel shirt that should fit the older boy. If he wears it under that hoodie he’s been using instead of a winter coat, he’ll be warmer.

“I’m going to invite Dean to bring his little brother over for a real Thanksgiving meal today. I don’t have a turkey, but I can roast a chicken and make fixings. At least it’ll be something hot with meat.” But even as the landlady says it, she doubts he’ll accept her offer. “That boy has a proud streak. I don’t see him coming if he thinks it’s some kind of charity.” Amanda has been growing more worried about the situation. If these boys’ father doesn’t show back up, she can’t just let them keep living alone in her cabin. She could end up in all kinds of legal trouble.

Her friends understand without too many words. They also start wondering if maybe getting the preacher involved isn’t a good idea - better than calling the police. Maybe the preacher can find out if these boys have kin somewhere who will take them in. At any rate, the group decides that if the dad’s not back by Sunday, they will have to do something.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade is playing on the television set for Sammy who is wrapped in a blanket eating his second bowl of cereal and milk as Dean gets ready to go shovel the walkways for the cabins. It’s bitter cold today after last night’s snowfall, and because Sammy is going to stay inside, Dean borrows his brother’s hat and scarf, and puts on the gloves he found cleaning a cabin yesterday. He wishes his shoes were better protection, or that they were dry from walking through slush last evening.

Dean kind of wishes he could just curl up under the blanket with Sam and watch the parade too, his throat hurts and he feels achy. But with Dad gone, Dean’s got to do his best. Dad will be really pissed off at him if he doesn’t do his job – take care of Sam. “I’m gonna to be right outside Sammy. Then I’m probably going to help clean the empty cabins, but I’ll be back in time to make lunch, okay? You just watch this, cause at the end – Santa comes to town.” Dean’s voice is scratchy, making his young voice sound deeper, more like their dad’s.

Sam turns a skeptical eye to his brother; Sam has the existence of Santa Claus under consideration, but even as young as Sam is he can see something is wrong with his brother. “Are you sure you should go out, Dean? You sound kind of sick.” Sam voices his concern, turning big hazel eyes of worry on his brother. Dean just ruffles his hair before telling him to lock up until he comes back.

While Dean is shoveling, he finds a five dollar bill which he tries to give the landlady, but she tells him tersely that it isn’t hers. She sounds even more curt than usual, and Dean has no way of knowing it’s because she can tell he’s getting sick. He pockets the bill, hoping the store is open so he can buy something special for dinner so Sammy doesn’t feel left out of normal celebrations. Sometimes Dean thinks he should tell Sammy the truth about how their mom died or what dad’s doing, but he wants Sam to not be so afraid – and knowing that stuff so young is scary.

“When you’re finished my walks, the lady at the laundry mat offered to pay you to do hers. You can use that shovel.”

Dean looks up from the scarf he has wrapped around his face, green eyes overly bright. “Thanks. Ma’am. I’ll be as fast as I can so I can get the rooms done too.” He’s a little nervous about her offer. Cleaning the rooms is what is keeping them in their cabin, he thinks. Besides the rooms have really been useful with food and even the gloves he’s wearing left behind by former tenants - Dean’s amazed at how wasteful some people are. “If that’s okay with you, Ma’am?” He ends in a fit of coughing that takes them both by surprise, and it scares her enough that she almost barks out her next sentence.

“You come and find me when you’re ready to clean the rooms.” She stomps back into the office heading for the phone to call her friends. If the older boy is sick, it changes things as far as she’s concerned. She’s sure the biddy committee will agree. They are going to have to take some kind of direct action. Damn that man leaving two little kids behind to fend for themselves.

. . . . . . .

Nov. 11, 1988

A sign outside the bar says “Hunters Welcome” and the four Supernatural hunters blend in with the small crowd sitting mostly at round tables in the dimly lit, smoky, little unnamed bar in Devil’s Elbow, Missouri. “What are we some kind of committee?” Paul Robertson shouts, drawing unwanted attention to the group. The town, on the east side of Fort Leonard Wood, made a convenient meeting place as the men prepared to go out after the thing that had killed Robertson’s partner.

It is – technically – Robertson’s hunt, and John Winchester is mentally cursing his friend Bill Harvelle for asking him to work with this group, especially since Robertson is determined to remain in charge of the expedition, even though he doesn’t have a plan, and he won’t even consider John’s plan, or look at the research John has collected. Robertson thinks it’s some kind of vengeful spirit, but John has his doubts.

“If you’ll just look at the information I’ve gathered.” John starts again, his reasonable voice getting a little strained. “You’ll see that the area your partner Gene went missing in used to be an Osage Indian village. Now, I know they packed up and headed further west in the 1820s, but that’s because the other immigrating tribes were pestering them. I think after centuries of living here, the Osage left because one of those visitors became an evil spirit, a Wendigo.”

Besides Robertson and John, the hunters include an old friend of Robertson who occasionally helps him with hunts. and a shaky forty year old who had been training with Harvelle’s group but was still pretty green. John didn’t expect much out of either of them, and he even wondered if he wouldn’t be better going alone than having these half-wits in the woods with him. Dean’s better trained, and he’s not even ten yet. But John needs Dean to look after his little brother right now. He feels a twinge of regret at not having been home in more than a week; he’d call but there’s not much he can say except to keep doing what they know they should.

John’s kind of interested in this hunt. A Wendigo isn’t his usual fare of werewolves, shapeshifters, witches, ghosts, and other vengeful spirits. Plus, it really is hunting season here. It feels nice to have an easier time blending in, and it’s Veteran’s Day. Surely as a Marine, he’s entitled to lift a few today. But first, he needs to work things out with Robertson.

“I don’t see why you won’t take these protection runes with you. It can’t hurt and it might help.” John’s patience is threadbare. “And take along a flamethrower. Shooting it is just going to piss it off.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Winchester. Wendigos are Algonquin. Those tribes are on the Atlantic coast, not smack dab in the middle of the country.” Robertson has lost patience too. He wants payback for his buddy Gene’s death and he thinks Winchester is just trying to complicate things. “Wendigos are demonic, fast, and cannibalistic. We know that. We also know this ain’t where you find them.”

John throws back another shot as he gathers his research. “Suit yourself. Just don’t expect me to follow you into a battle unarmed.”

. . . . . . .

When Dean finishes the shoveling and the cabin cleaning, he’s loaded down with his finds, so he isn’t terribly surprised when Mrs. Marvin offers to help him carry things back to the room. He is surprised that two other women, the ones from the convenience store and laundry, and an older man are waiting for him.

Dean turns betrayed eyes to the landlady. “What…?” He croaks out, voice failing as fear clamps down on an already swollen throat.

“Don’t worry, son. We aren’t here to hurt anyone. We all just need to talk to you.” The man’s voice is deep and calm, but it only causes Dean to panic more.

“I’m not your son.” Dean lets his anger rise. He knows what this is, this is adults thinking he can’t do his job, can’t take care of his little brother. Angry tears start falling, and it just makes Dean madder because he thinks that will make him look weak. “I’m not going to let you in, so go away.” He wishes his nose would stop running because he knows he’s blubbering. Dad wouldn’t like that, and he doesn’t want to scare Sammy by crying in front of him. “Go away.” He repeats more quietly after wiping his face on the scarf.

And right when Dean starts to hope the group will just walk away, the cabin door opens and Sammy is standing there still wrapped in his blanket. “Dean? I thought I heard you. I was getting scared because you’ve been gone so long…” Sammy trails off as he takes in his big brother’s tear-stained face and the strangers outside. “Oh.”

Dean is swept inside as the adults enter with him and shut the door. The two boys end up huddled together on the couch as the women check over the room clucking over what they find. They put away food and straighten the room. Irene collects the laundry hanging here and there to dry after being hand washed in the bathtub. She heads out to the laundry mat. Mable makes a tching sound about what little food is there before rushing over to the store. Amanda picks up and puts back down the few books and play items she finds. But it’s the man who draws the boys’ attention.

Dean has Sammy on his lap now and the blanket draped over both of them. Sammy thinks his brother is cold because he’s trembling.

“Boys, I’m Reverend Wright. I’m here to help.” He ignores Dean’s snort. “We’ve noticed your dad’s not here right now, and it’s a holiday. One where we thank God for our existence and the many blessings we have. It’s also one where our community always tries to share what it has with those who have less.” Reverend Wright sees he has the littler boy’s interest. “Do you like turkey? Mashed potatoes? Pie?”

“Dean loves pie. Don’t you Dean?” Sammy squirms around to try to catch his brother’s eyes. He thinks getting a real Thanksgiving dinner sounds like a great plan, and he is too little to understand Dean’s upset.

“Be quiet, Sammy.” Dean mutters at him.

“But it sounds good, Dean, and Daddy said we were going to go to Pastor Jim’s for Thanksgiving. And we would ‘a had a real Thanksgiving.” Sammy is fixing Dean with sad eyes. “I want turkey, Dean. And I’m hungry.”

Dean feels as though he’s being torn in half. He wants Sam to have a nice meal. He really doesn’t want him to be hungry. But Dean knows that he’ll already be in trouble because there are strangers in their room. Dad is going to be so mad at him. He is still trying to hold back tears, feeling stuffy and sick and hot, and his stomach betrays him with a loud growl.

Reverend Wright concentrates on the littler boy. “Tell me about Pastor Jim.”


	4. Chapter 4

Only Mrs. Marvin and Reverend Wright actually stay to eat a Thanksgiving meal with the boys, although there was a flurry of activity from the other two women from the old biddy committee, including bringing food, drinks, cleaned clothes, and even coloring books, drawing paper, pencils and crayons. The table is set for five with as many holiday treats as the women and the preacher’s church ladies could whip up or donate on such short notice. Sammy is ecstatic, naming each one like it is a treasure he’s never expected to have.

“Look, Dean! A roasted turkey, stuffing with walnuts, mashed potatoes and gravy! And rolls! Ooo, they’re still hot, Dean. Look, Dean, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and corn! It’s just like the Pilgrims! They had corn too.” Sammy’s enthusiastic naming is infectious to the two older people, but not to Dean. Each dish, each pronouncement from his little brother, is a nail driven through his flesh. Proof that strangers are doing a better job of taking care of his little brother than Dean managed.

“Dean! Look, Dean. There’re pies for dessert.” Sammy continues to break Dean’s heart because he has never felt less like eating than he does right now. Not even pie, and he misses pie, like his mom made.

The grownups cannot help but smile at the little boy with his mop of chestnut curls and his great big grin. His brother has given up trying to get Sammy to stop talking. Sammy has babbled about Pastor Jim from Blue Earth, Minnesota, who is Daddy’s friend and their godfather. He has yakked about how long Dad has been gone, and how they had run out of food and money, and Dean how has been washing their socks and underwear in the bath tub, and he ran out of pencils. He tells them his mom is dead and that he doesn’t remember her at all.

“She died in a car crash when I was a baby. That’s what Dean said. Right, Dean?” Sammy knows something is wrong. He knows he’s doing something that has his big brother upset, but he can’t contain his nervous energy. He scampers over to his brother and tugs at the blanket.

Dean stays quiet and sullen, huddled with his knees up to his chest under a blanket in the corner of the couch, chewing on his bottom lip and wiping tears and snot on the sleeve of his shirt until Mrs. Marvin tugs it off him and hands him a box of tissues. She stares down at him wondering how to fix this. This little boy is obviously heart-broken that he has been deemed not capable of taking care of his little brother. His pride is hurt, but it’s more. Not just angry either, but, yes, that’s part of it too. It’s like he thinks that he has failed at his life’s work.

And he’s only nine.

The old woman sighs heavily and considers leaving this problem to the men of God, the reverend and the boy’s pastor who is on his way down from Minnesota, but it seems to her that maybe the boy could use a little womanly comfort. She just knows she has never been especially good at it. This boy though, Dean, he has grit. She sees a lot of herself in him, and she knows what she wishes her younger self had learned. She sits down next to him, and he peers at her through half-closed and tear swollen eyes.

“It’s okay to need help sometimes, you know. Okay to ask for help when you need it.” His eyes flash his denial. “Harrumph. I guess I don’t expect you to learn that so quick. But here’s another for you. Think about this a minute. When nothing you can do will change something, you’ve got to learn to put away your personal feelings or you’ll suck the fun out of everything for everyone else. That’s not what you want for your brother, is it?”

Dean sits a little straighter and looks over at Sammy. “No, Ma’am. I don’t. I mean I want Sammy to be happy, and I want Dad to be happy too.” He chews on his lip a while longer. “But…I don’t think I can make them both happy.”

“They’re my family.” He defends, and she shakes her head tiredly. There’s no fixing this one, not easily anyway.

A sharp rapping at the door has Sammy jumping up yelling “Pastor Jim” before the door is even opened by Reverend Wright. Jim Murphy is still wearing his clerical collar, not having stopped to change after getting the strange call. The ninety mile trip from his place in Minnesota to Mason City took seventy-five minutes, and he knows that means he was driving too fast on snowy roads.

Pastor Jim has an armful of squirming Sammy, as the five-year-old starts reciting the menu again breathlessly. Jim laughs and swings Sammy onto a seat at the table. “Looks like you’ve been waiting on me. Let’s eat before it gets cold, and we can exchange what we know while we partake.”

His plan is agreeable to the other adults and Sammy, and after a stern glance Dean joins them at the table. Jim starts off apologizing to the other adults, saying he would have been there a lot sooner if anyone had let him know what was going on. His pointed look at Dean has the boy pushing away his plate uneaten. Jim pushes it back in front of him.

“How long since your Dad left Dean? And when was he due back?”

Dean’s cracked voice is the first indication Jim has that the nine-year-old isn’t well, and his brow furrows with worry. “Dad left on November second. He had some work he had to do in Missouri and he had paid for the room for three weeks and enrolled us in school.” Dean trails off.

“When did he say he’d be back?” Jim presses, but Dean shrugs. He doesn’t remember if his dad said. He just knows that Dad wouldn’t leave them without money for rent unless something bad happened. He tries to swallow some turkey, but it hurts too much. Jim frowns at him.

“Daddy said we were going to see you for Thanksgiving,” Sammy adds, mostly to deflect attention away from his brother who looks miserable.

The adults at the table look at each other. John checked them in before Halloween, left a couple days later, and has been gone three weeks. From what Sammy just said, John meant to leave the boys – a five-year-old being cared for by a nine-year-old - with no clear idea of when to expect him back except a promise of a holiday. And Jim, the former Marine and John’s friend, finds he just lost his appetite. That information is bad enough. The fact that the boys haven’t even heard from him probably means John is hurt, or worse.

In his worry, Jim lashes out at Dean. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“We were fine. We’re safe, and Dad’ll be mad at me if I can’t handle something simple like watching Sammy.” Dean croaks out. It has the ring of something the boy has heard, so Jim snaps his mouth closed on a retort.

“He’ll be mad at you for not calling me sooner.” Jim says in a warning tone.

Cradling his forehead in his hand, Dean looks directly in Jim’s eyes for the first time. “I guess I’m screwed either way.”

. . . . . . .

Nov. 15, 1988

The Mark Twain National Forest takes up 1.5 million acres of Missouri’s highlands. The trees cover the worn down stubs of the ancient volcanic mountain range now known as the Ozarks with their ground fed springs and more than five thousand caves. The forest is old and beautiful, and only the intrepid wander further in to uncharted areas. It is not as cold as Iowa where John stashed the boys, and the tree cover is too thick to worry about snow except in the rocky clearings.

John woke cold and alone this morning. The four hunters had gone after whatever this thing is – and John still thinks it’s a Wendigo – three days ago. This morning when he woke up in his government surplus sleeping bag tuck into a pup tent the first thing he noticed was the silence. No one else was moving around. The other hunters are missing from their tents, the ones without protective runes. All three. But their rifles and gear are still here in the campsite. John is here, deep in the woods, alone.

“Goddamnit.” John grouses as he packs up his tent and gear, feeling the whole time like something is watching him. He downs a power bar and a drink from his canteen, knowing it’s important to stay hydrated and fueled. He pulls out his compass and map to take a reading, reminding himself which way is out. It’s hard to tell in the hushed woods that seem to be weighing down on him, and John doesn’t know if he’s paranoid or that the monster is out there watching.

After an hour of hiking, John hears a noise and whirls toward the sound, lifting a flamethrower, only to find nothing. He sees a knob of rock ahead of him and heads toward it hoping the increased altitude will allow him to get a better look around him. The rock is slippery, icy in spots, but John climbs the outcropping, slowly turning to get a 360 degree view of trees and more trees.

He feels more than hears the rushing of another body at him, and steps back, slipping on the rocks. He feels his ankle break before he’s falling.

. . . . . . .

Thanksgiving evening

Sammy’s practically flying around the room on a sugar high from eating two pieces of pie. He’s unhelpfully helping everyone pack.

“Dean. Don’t make me tell you again. Get this stuff packed up!” Pastor Jim Murphy wishes he didn’t sound quite as angry as Dean turns haunted eyes to him. The boy’s got red rims and dark circles. His eyes are glassy bright, and it just occurs to Jim that maybe this is fever, flu not a cold. Dean certainly looks sick enough. Jim’s stomach lurches when he goes to feel Dean’s forehead and the boy flinches like he expects to be hit.

“Settle down now buddy. I’m just checking,” Jim soothes. Mrs. Marvin can tell that Jim’s concerned, and she figures out why quickly, kicking herself for forgetfulness. She knew the older boy was ill. She excuses herself and heads to her place to get a thermometer and some Robitusson.

Jim ushers Dean over to the couch again and lets him wrap himself in the blanket. He’s relieved when Sammy climbs up next to his brother, leaning into Dean’s side as he opens the coloring book and crayons. Jim Murphy heads over to huddle with the other man of God, offering thanks again for taking the time to find him.

“I don’t know what’s up with the boys’ father, but believe me when I tell you, I will find out.”

Reverend Wright is packing up the last of the leftover foods. The adults decided to the preacher could take them to some other of his congregation in need. “I’m still hesitating about this,” he says pulling on his ear. “There’s no denying he meant to leave them alone for a few weeks. That older boy? He’s not really old enough to mind himself and the little boy that long.”

“I was doing fine. We were doing fine. Weren’t we, Sammy?” Dean’s hoarse voice puts a lie to his words, but the adults ignore him. He’s obviously grumpy and sick. He ducks his head before anyone can see the tears in his eyes.

Seconds later, Mrs. Marvin taps his chin to get him to lift his head. She pops in a thermometer while holding on to his gaze. “I see you.” She whispers. “I watched you. You were doing fine until you got sick.” A grateful tear falls, but she shakes her head and wipes it with her thumb. “No. Stay strong, youngster. You need to.”

Dean snuffles back tears and gives a small nod. He can stay strong. A few minutes later, dosed with the cough syrup and Tylenol for a 101.5 fever, Pastor Jim loads the boys into the back of his sedan. He needs to get them home to Blue Earth and make some calls to find out what and where John was hunting. Something has to be wrong for John to have abandoned his boys.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanksgiving night 1988

Pastor Jim Murphy has been using his rearview mirror more for watching the little boys in the backseat of his sedan sleep than for keeping an eye on traffic on the drive up to Blue Earth, Minnesota, from Mason City, Iowa. With Sammy, it’s most likely the tryptophan influence of the turkey dinner, but with Dean it’s the cough syrup and Tylenol for his flu-like symptoms. Jim is kicking himself. He kind of wishes he could kick John Winchester too. After he finds him – please, merciful God – alive.

Having picked up the Winchester boys from the cabin their father left them in near Mason City, Iowa, twenty-four days ago, Jim is trying to get back to his rectory and get them tucked into bed so he can concentrate on finding John without having to worry about people overhearing him talk about supernatural possibilities. But that’s not why Pastor Jim’s kicking himself. He’s beating himself up because he has been letting his anxiety sharpen his tongue when he talks to Dean, who is a nine-year-old adult actually. As sad as that is, it’s the truth.

Jim was worried about Dean as far back as when John came to him a few months after Mary’s death. At barely five, an obviously traumatized Dean had taken over the bulk of the care and feeding of baby Sammy. Jim remembers how back then the only sounds Dean made for months were whispers to his baby brother and murmured snatches of songs sung while he sat in the crib feeding his baby brother while rocking him to sleep. The Dean he had met before, before the fire, the cheerful little boy with big green eyes and Mary’s golden curls was gone. In his place was a small solemn ghost.

Jim had helped John find other hunters to get training when John learned of the supernatural. He even learned himself, but was more of a resource and hub for hunters than an active hunter himself. Jim had allowed John to leave the boys with him sometimes, but three years ago he had cornered John about his long absences and excess drinking, and John had taken the boys and left. They kept in touch mostly by phone with occasional visits, only when John was injured and couldn’t hunt.

Jim looks in his backseat again at what he has allowed to happen for five years. Dean looks almost gaunt, and the dark circles aren’t just from illness. As far as clothing, Jim has seen pictures of kids from third world countries coming to the missions the church runs there dressed as well, or better. Jim wonders how Dean manages to keep Sammy well-clothed, and why he doesn’t put the same effort into taking care of himself. Self-esteem issues? Problems with self-worth?

Dean’s childhood is gone, and it is a miracle that the little boy has managed, somehow, to keep Sammy as innocent as he is. Jim had seen the despair in Dean’s eyes when he said his father was going to be angry at him for needing help. Angry? With a little boy who has run out of rent money, and according to strangers searches for cans to recycle to keep himself and his brother fed.

What irreparable damage has been done to Dean? And where on earth has John gotten? Jim muses as he finally passes the statue of the Jolly Green Giant that stands tall in the flat Minnesota countryside.

Blue Earth is a small town of about 3,000, but it is the Faribault County seat, and the shopping hub for all the nearby farms. He’s glad to be back, and cautions himself to be kinder to the scared boy who is sleeping with his little brother protectively in his arms. Dean could use a little kindness. Carefully maneuvering the car as close to the front door as the driveway allows, Jim turns it off and takes the boys’ bags into the neat little three bedroom house behind the church. He comes back out and opens the back door. “Dean? Come on, buddy, we’re here. Let me get Sammy so I can carry him in.”

Dean’s arms tighten around his little brother as he slowly blinks back awake. “Give him here. I’ll put him inside and be right back for you.” Dean blinks slowly again, but seems to process the information and loosens his hold on his brother. “I can walk, Dean says, shivering a little from the sudden blast of cold where his brother’s warm body had been. He scampers out of the car and follows Jim into the house.

Jim tucks both boys into a single bed in his guest room, taking off coats and shoes, but leaving them dressed before pulling up the blankets. He sits in a chair next to the bed and runs his hand through both boy’s hair, murmuring quiet prayers to Heaven for their protection. “Dear Lord, Send angels to look over these boys please. Keep them safe from harm. Please, Lord, help me be a healing presence in their lives. And, if possible, help me find their father. I don’t think these boys can take another loss.”

. . . . . . .

November 18, 1988

If there’s a problem with the cave, it’s that it is small and damp. But since the dampness comes from a small steady trickle of water that is keeping John alive, it makes that a problem he’s willing to overlook. It looks to be about a fifteen foot drop onto the floor. Far enough that the Wendigo – and that’s what it is – couldn’t reach him. With the contents of his pack, his flamethrower, and his first aid kit, John has made himself as comfortable as he can.

“As well as can be expected,” he mutters to himself harshly. One of those platitudes he learned when people asked him how he was doing when Mary died.

There’s a list of good about the cave. It’s protected from the weather, small enough to heat easily, has a clean water supply, between the opening at the top and the opening where the water streams out  it has both good airflow and waste disposal. He has enough room to stretch out to sleep, a waterproof ground cover, a sleeping bag, and food supplies to last at least another week. With his broken fibula in a splint, John has time to wait and heal. Time to make a plan. And way too much time to think.

John tries hard to keep his thoughts to happy memories. Not his childhood. It was lonely and gray after his father left. Not the war. Not the five years since Mary died. He trains his thoughts to ten happy years. In his memories, he glosses over the fights that he and Mary sometimes had and plays over her smile, her happiness with motherhood, her insistence on being normal. His Mary. Decorating the nursery, baking pies, delighting over little things. He doesn’t remember ever feeling at home except wrapped in Mary’s arms.

Try as he might, John can’t totally block out thoughts of his sons, Mary’s sons. He sees so much of himself in Sammy and so much of Mary in Dean. Deep inside he’s a little jealous; Sammy is still cocooned in love, wrapped in his brother’s arms. John knows that process started in the dark days right after Mary’s death. When the black cloud of anger and grief dissipated, John realized that Dean had clung to Sammy, and Sammy to Dean. He was an unwelcomed intrusion to his sons’ lives, good only for signing paperwork and keeping them fed, clothed, and sheltered.

Well, if Dean wanted to take over parenting, John’s willing to allow it…on his terms. Dean has to man up, obey orders, learn to keep Sammy safe. But even that litany doesn’t soothe him. John has been keeping something from Dean, a deep, dark secret about Sammy and Mary’s death. The kind of secret that breaks his heart every time he looks at his kids. And he knows, on the other hand, that his avoidance of them is not helping anyone.

. . . . . . .

November 25, 1988

Snow is falling again, and seems to have been most of the night based on the white drifts outside the window where pale light streams through into the cozy kitchen. Sammy is sitting at the table with a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of milk. Dean is preparing coffee in the coffeemaker, his own bowl waiting for him on the table when Pastor Jim comes into the room yawning.

“Good morning, boys. You didn’t need to make breakfast; I’d be glad to do that for you. How’re you feeling, Dean?” Jim greets the boys, tousling Sammy’s silky hair on his way toward Dean. The older boy strategically moves around the table and slips into his chair. “Dean?”

Unable to avoid answering any longer, Dean tries to clear his throat, eyes fluttering with pain, and croaks. “I’m fine.” Jim manages to hold in his snort of disbelief, keeping his word to himself about how to deal with the nine-year-old.

“I’m fine, Pastor Jim.” Sammy’s chirpy even with his mouth full of breakfast. “I don’t remember getting here, and I missed the Green Giant. Could you take me to see it today?” Jim tells Sammy he’ll try but it will depend on the weather and the people he’s expecting.

 “Well, we’ll check your temperature after breakfast, Dean. We’ve got a few hours before your dad’s friends will be here.” Dean looks up at him sharply, and it helps remind Jim to mind what he says in front of Sammy. “I thought maybe you boys could get hot baths. I know it must have been uncomfortable to sleep in your clothes.”

Dean scrapes up the last of the oatmeal, swallowing it down before placing the bowl near the sink. “I’ll go run Sammy’s bath, Pastor Jim. And I’ll be back to talk to you once he’s in it.”

Scrubbed clean, Sammy sprawls in front of the television watching Sesame Street and coloring. Without hurting Dean’s feelings more, Jim gets him to shower and put on some sweats he had in a bin from church donations. Dean has been dosed with cold medicine and ordered to stretch out on the couch where he is fighting off sleep again.

Pastor Jim peeks in at them before heading in to make some calls to get a private investigator involved, and call in some favors to have law enforcement in Missouri on alert to be on the lookout for a very distinctive Chevy Impala. Just thinking of that jolts his memory, and he gets on the phone to Missouri Moseley. Nothing like having a psychic for an ally when someone goes missing. He is barely off the phone before he hears knocking at the door and hurries to open it.

“Christo it’s good to see you,” Pastor Jim greets Bill Harvelle, watching the man’s eyes for any flicker of demonic possession. “You made great time up from Nebraska.” He waits a minute for Ellen and the baby  to catch up. He starts guiding Bill in. “Singer isn’t here yet,” he starts to add as a 1971 Chevelle pulls in behind Harvelle’s pickup truck.  

“You all go in. The boys are in front of the TV.” Pastor Jim shuts the outside door to not let drafts in to the living room where the boys are. “Singer.” His greeting is more terse. Pastor Jim was surprised the guy came. He knew that the wreckage yard operator had harsh words with John Winchester last time he saw him.

“Murphy.” Bobby returns. Then pulls a silver knife to cut his hand and patiently waits for the muttered word to check for demon possession. “If we’re good now, why don’t you invite me in out of this goddamn cold.”


	6. Chapter 6

November 25, 1988

Ellen is turning various leftovers into a pot of soup in the kitchen while Joanna Beth naps in the back bedroom in an old porta-crib that had been Sam’s. Bobby and Bill sit at the table with a big map of Mark Twain’s National Forest. Pastor Jim has taken a rambunctious five-year-old Sammy – who is bursting with happiness and energy - to see the Jolly Green Giant statue and then to a playground in hopes of wearing him out. Dean is still on the couch dozing on and off. Ellen had henpecked him into agreeing to take medicine and cover up with a blanket.

Bill is explaining what he knows to Bobby. The vengeful spirit hunt he had sent John on, simple enough and the hotel owner was offering to pay cash money. Bill had heard that it had been successful, and then – since John was in the area anyway – he had a hunter-needs-assistance emergency. Bill says he knew the main hunter, Paul Robertson, and had sent him on a few simpler tasks. “Simple tasks for sure, salt and burns mostly. He ain’t much in the brains department.” He notes.

Then Bill tells Bobby he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t hear much from them. “That area of Missouri? Just not many people except the Army post. And you know we all avoid entering federally controlled land what with random searches of vehicles and all.”

“Did you stop to think about his kids? They’ve been on their own twenty-four days.” Bobby’s voice is gruff. Those two little boys were what Bobby had argued with John Winchester over last time he saw him. Ha, more than argued. Bobby had found himself with a shotgun pointed at that ass John Winchester and a plan to bury him with the other bodies in the back lot of the salvage yard. The man was so twisted around his own axels he never stopped to think about his kids.

People who are gonna be lousy parents hadn’t oughta do it around Bobby. And John Winchester’s boys had struck a deep chord of response in his lonely heart. You couldn’t make up better sons.

“Ellen and I offered to keep them, but John said he had it covered.” Bill defends. “Hell, he could have brought them with him to the hotel. Dean’s turning into a smart little cookie about hunting. You know he’s where we got the idea to load rock salt and iron into shotgun shells. And Sammy? I know Dean’s intent on keeping him out of it, but that is one bright little kid. The pastor’s teaching him Latin, I hear.”

Ellen doesn’t want to hear the hunters squabble about things that can’t be changed. “Hey, Singer, at least we haven’t completely pushed him away. John’s a bit high-strung about his boys. If we push him, like you did, there won’t be anyone left to keep an eye on them.” Ellen’s no-nonsense rant sets Bobby back, and he admits she has a point.

“Well,” he grumbles. “I don’t have to like it.” Bobby gets up and opens the refrigerator. Peers inside. “Where’s the beer?”

Bill Harvelle snorts. “Cooler in the back of my truck. Jim doesn’t like to keep it in the house ‘cause he thinks too many hunters are alcoholics.”

Bobby gives a loud chuckle. “Wonder what gave him that idea?” He asks as he heads toward the door, coming back in shortly after with the cooler. He and Bill crack open beers and go back to looking over the map. “One and a half million acres is a lot of ground to cover,” Bobby grouses. “And you say he was out with a team? Three other hunters? All missing?”

The low gasp from the doorway gets the three adults’ attention. Dean is pale and shaky, leaning on the door frame. He has obviously overheard what they’ve been saying. Ellen shoots the men a meaningful glance as she heads for the boy.

Dean squares his thin shoulders under his slightly too big sweats, a fever flush painting cheeks in an otherwise pale face. “Dad’s gone missing during a hunt?” It’s half-statement half-question. It is the fear that makes it hard for him to sleep so many nights that his dad is off and he is left to take care of Sammy. It’s what he has been afraid to consider as he kept eking out a day-to-day existence when Dad didn’t get home by Thanksgiving.

“Dean, I don’t think you should be up.” Ellen starts, but she’s stopped with a look from a set of bright green eyes, too knowledgeable for a boy of nine.

“It’s my dad. I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.” Dean makes his way over to the table with the map, and pulls out a chair so he can kneel on it and get a good look at the terrain. “You said there were four hunters? Do we know where they entered the National Forest?”

Bill and Bobby hold a debate with their eyes over the top of Dean’s head. Bill eventually shrugs. Ellen rolls her eyes and goes to stir the soup and turn it down to simmer. She sets to work getting out bowls and utensils for lunch. Pulling out a couple loaves of frozen bread she had heated in the oven.

“Uncle Bobby?” Dean has put just enough of a plea into those words to melt Bobby Singer’s heart. He mutters a cuss and clanks his beer bottle back onto the table, so he can hold the map down with one hand while he points out the entrance near Devil’s Elbow they think the hunters used.

“Your dad showed up to help another hunter out, Paul Robertson, a guy who had lost his partner. You know your dad would insist on doing research first, so we’re thinking it’s been about ten days. Might still be hunting for all we know, so don’t start making it more than it is. There’s enough to concern you without letting your imagination take over.”

“Yessir.” Dean answers, his small fingers tracing over marked trails. “Wow, that’s…that’s a really big place. How are we going to find Dad?”

“WE aren’t doing a damned thing.” Bill Harvelle wants the boy to be clear on this. “Bobby and I are going to meet up with a few more hunters, but you are staying put.” He pins the boy with a steady glare trying to intimidate him into agreement, but he’s met with the most stubborn look Dean can dredge up. It’s obvious without any backtalk that Dean has made no agreement. The older hunters sigh at the complication.

“Dean, you’re only nine…” Bobby starts in a reasonable voice, but hurries to interrupt when Dean starts to open his mouth. “There’s still two full months before your birthday. We can’t take you with us. No, we won’t. So don’t even think about coming with us. We need you here to take care of your little brother. You want him to be safe, don’t you?” Bobby knows that’s a low blow. “You hearing me boy?” He asks to the best poker face he has ever seen on a kid.

“You wonn’t take me with you. Someone needs to keep Sammy safe.” Dean repeats back like a little parrot, and Bobby’s left wondering why he doesn’t feel like he won the argument.

“No one’s going to pick a little twerp of a kid out hitchhiking either.” Bobby adds, trying to cover all his bases.

No, sir.” Dean agrees.

“It’s six hundred miles, near about.” Bobby continues to pile on evidence. Dean just nods. “You better not steal from the preacher to get money to try to take a bus.” At that, Dean’s face gets angry and indignant, and to his distress tears start forming in his eyes.

“Uncle Bobby!” Dean cries out in pain as real as though he’d been struck. Not able to hold back a sob, he races from the room and shuts himself in the bathroom.

“Well, that could have gone better.” Bobby deflates into his seat.

Before anyone else can say a word, the front door opens and a rosy from play Sammy comes rushing in followed by Pastor Jim who takes one look at the crew in the kitchen and says, “What happened?”

. . . . . . .

November 20, 1988

John Winchester has been down in this tiny cave for five days, mostly thinking and healing. He is snug as a bug in a rug, as the old saying goes. He has his journal and the clippings he has made when he was researching this hunt, too, and when he’s caught up in his research he forgets where he is. John has decided to start using his leg a little every day, standing and stretching, and doing some simple physical therapy exercises to strengthen it. He has also found and unwound his parachute cord, 550 pound tested by the United States military. There’s a reason he always keeps some in his pack.

The monster who had startled him into falling had come by a couple times. Dropped some rocks down on him at one point, but the flame thrower is holding up and effective in chasing it away. It? The Wendigo. But John admits it’s different than any he has read about in the research. This one appears to have been female in life, some kind of Algonquin medicine woman. John has been carefully drawing her into his journal.

When he’s free again, John plans to take her out. She can’t keep preying on campers, and on the Hunters who respond to spooky events. John wonders how she ended up here in Osage country, but he figures there was actually a lot of intermarrying amongst tribes, especially when so many began to immigrate inland away from the white settlers. John can’t help speculating; he has plenty of time on his hands right now. He builds a scenario in his head where the medicine woman, trying to prove her worth and earn respect in her new tribe, begins to perform rituals that require blood magic, then maybe drinking blood. From there, she probably ate the hearts or livers. Nothing good ever comes from drinking blood.

Cannibalism is the root cause in the becoming of a Wendigo. The craving for flesh burns inside of the flesh eater, and, yes, there were benefits. The practitioner becomes faster, stronger, feels smarter, lives longer. The body itself starts to change, eventually becoming elongated and gaunt, and the hunger never abates. Funny, in a sad way, how so many monsters start out human.

Ugh, John wishes he could wipe the thought out of his mind. Bleach it out. That’s the root cause of so many of his problems. What was it that demon was doing in his younger son’s bedroom? Was his beautiful little boy destined to become a monster? Could he do what was needed if … John just stops; he refuses to think about this anymore, and he knows he takes the coward’s way out by putting space between him and the boys so often. He reaches for the bottle of Hunter’s Helper from the medicine kit. It won’t be enough, but it might just blur the pain a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting this out quickly because of the holiday. I'll be back to a more regular schedule now.


	7. Chapter 7

Noon - November 25, 1988.

“Dean?” Pastor Jim knocks softly on the locked bathroom door. “Hey, kiddo. Open the door please. I don’t want to talk through it, we might wake the baby.”

The soft snick of the door unlocking heralds the boy’s appearance. Dean didn’t look especially well this morning, now he looks terrible. His eyes are red and swollen, his cheeks tear-stained, he’s still pale underneath the fever flush. His mouth is trembling, “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll just go to my room.” It’s a painfully polite dismissal whispered from a little boy who is holding himself rigidly, and Jim is torn. Pushing the boy right now is not a good idea. He nods and gives ground, allowing Dean to pass.

Jim walks back into the kitchen and glares at Bobby until Bobby feels it without words. The older hunter looks up from his soup bowl. “How’s the kid?” Guilt drips from his question and his facial expressions. Jim pointedly looks over to Sammy instead of answering. Bobby rolls his eyes, gets up and heads for the door with Pastor Jim and Bill Harvelle following. Once outside, the three huddle using Harvelle’s truck to block the cold wind.

“You are going to have to fix this, Singer.” The preacher says adamantly. “Bill here doesn’t know him as well as we do, and I’ve already said too much of the wrong thing. That little boy is going to think he has no one he can trust or turn to. So you do what you’ve got to do, but make this right.”

Bobby huffs out, a white cloud obscuring his features for a moment. “Well, if I do what I gotta do, I don’t want any shit from either of you. Agreed?” Because Bobby knows how this is going to end up now if he has to go mend fences with Dean. Even years later he’ll wonder if they got played by a prepubescent Dean Winchester.

Once the other men mumble agreement, Bobby heads back to the house. He stops long enough to pick up his soup bowl and finish off the contents. “That’s good, Ellen. Thanks.” He gently ruffles Sammy’s mop as a reminder.

“Oh this is the best soup ever,” Sammy chimes in, earning a big thank you hug from the woman. “Aunt Ellen, Uncle Bobby, is Dean okay?” Sammy turns mournful eyes on them. “I know he’s sick, but we’re okay now. Right? And Daddy will know where to find us?” Ellen soothes the little boy with promises of helping little Jo learn to color without eating the crayons after lunch, and then reminds him to finish up.

Bobby puts his bowl by the sink, still thinking things through. “Well, I’m going to go talk to Dean a minute. I’ll bring him out for some lunch as soon as we’re through.” Ellen casts worried eyes his way. When the other two hunters tramp back in, Ellen excuses herself to go get two-year-old Jo and she follows Bobby into the hall. Ellen pats his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze before they turn different directions in the hallway.

Bobby pushes open the door to the room where the boys are staying with just a gentle tap to announce him. In a way, that’s fair. He’s supposed to take the other single bed in the room to sleep tonight, so it’s his room too. Dean is face down on the bed. “Dean. It’s Uncle Bobby, kiddo. I think we need to talk.”

Sitting up slowly, Dean turns slightly to face Bobby. His eyes are downcast and his lower lip trembles until he bites down on it. “Yessir.” Dean responds in a near whisper, a well-trained soldier. Bobby pushes down that thought as he searches through what he knows about this little boy.

“Well, hell. First, I’m apologizing. I know you’d never steal from family, and Jim’s family. I was trying to talk to ya, and things just starting coming out all wrong.” Bobby moves closer, but Dean turns his head away and tucks it into his own shoulder. Bobby thinks how appropriate the pose is. Dean is like a broken bird trying to tuck his head into a wing.

Bobby eases on the bed to sit next to him, not touching, but close enough that they are sharing body heat. Too much body heat. Bobby reaches a cautious hand to Dean’s forehead. Too warm. Dean doesn’t jerk away. Bobby uses his other hand to cup the back of the boy’s head lightly. “Hey, Buddy, you need more medicine for that fever. You need to eat too, some of that soup Ellen made. You want to get well, don’t you?” He tickles the fringe of hair on Dean’s neck. “Talk to me.”

The snuffling sounds from Dean have Bobby scrambling to his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief and sliding it into Dean’s hand. “Here. Blow your nose.” Bobby somehow finds his footing again with the small gesture and is relieved to see bright green eyes looking directly at him. “There now. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying!” Dean’s torn voice says indignantly. “I’m sick.”

“Right.” Bobby snorts at him. “You’re not crying.” Dean glares, and Bobby sighs. “It’s okay for a guy to cry, Dean.”

“Nuh-uh. Dad says only babies cry.”

Bobby can’t bite it back. “Well that’s horse shit, Dean. God knows I cried plenty in my life. Besides that, you’re sick. Being sick gives you a pass on that.”

Dean narrows his eyes at Bobby. “Dad said if you’re not dying you gotta man up and do what you gotta do.” Before Bobby can say anything, Dean continues challengingly. “And my Dad is a hero, he’d know.”

The area in his head where Bobby stores stuff he doesn’t want to deal with right away is getting pretty full of John Winchester’s macho bullshit, Bobby thinks. He’ll just add telling a sick little boy to man up to his list of reasons to kick that man’s ass someday. Or just shoot him. It’s pretty obvious John could own him in a physical confrontation. Bobby gathers his wandering thoughts and tries again.

“Well, I bet your dad tells you you’ve got to eat right and take your medicine, don’t he?” Dean nods, and Bobby takes advantage of that small inroad. “But first. We gotta figure out what we’re gonna do about this situation in finding your dad.” Bobby pauses, hoping Dean will feel the need to fill in the empty air; Dean watches him. “You’re not planning to do what I ask and stay here quietly, are you?

Dean’s head shake is dramatically slow and exaggerated. Bobby sighs.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re a stubborn little cuss?” He asks rhetorically, and has to bite back a laugh as Dean’s nod is even more dramatic and exaggerated.

“Okay, Stud. What are we going to do about this situation? I can’t have you sneaking off trying to get to Missouri the minute I hit the road.”

“Take me with you?” It’s said like a prayer. “Please. I can help.”

“Dean, you’re too young for this kind of hunt.”

“But…I can be the guy at the check-in point. Once people split up, lines of communication go down. If we have walkie-talkies – the teams need to be on different frequencies, I can be the hub. I wouldn’t even have to leave the car.” Dean stops short of begging, but not by much. Bobby’s eyeing him differently. That’s actually a damn good point about communications. The guys are recruiting other hunters and still waiting to hear from the psychic Missouri Moseley before they set out.

“You know I’d have conditions you’d have to swear to?” Bobby’s afraid Dean will hurt himself with how hard he’s nodding his head now. “You have to do exactly what I tell you to do there – when I tell you to do it. Plus, you’ve got to eat and take your medicine, and try to get better before we leave. And lie down and sleep as much as you can in the car.” The rest of the conditions are muffled as Dean wraps his arms around the old hunter, squeezing him in a fierce hug.

. . . . . . .

November 22, 1988

One full week. That’s a good enough start to mending a broken leg that John’s pretty sure he can use it for essentials – like getting the hell out of this hole in the ground. Plus, he can’t just sit here anymore. Rent on the cabin will be due, and the boys will be worried. He normally would have checked in with them long before now, but you can’t just call kids and say “Everything’s fine. I’m just at the bottom of a cave a monster dropped me in.”

John hopes Dean has the sense to call Pastor Jim – or, hell, even that old drunk, Bobby Singer, when the landlady comes knocking. He doesn’t want the kids tangled up with Child Protective Services. John shakes his head. If they do, he’s got no one to blame but himself. He knows he left the five year anniversary of Mary’s death throw him off his game. “Sorry, Mary.” John whispers. It’s the only kind of prayer he allows himself.

Sitting in this dank hole thinking about how to get out has occupied much of John’s time this week. He has loosened trees roots, used his parachute cord, and currently has a kind of ladder built. While he was at it, he cobbled together a crutch and strengthened the splint he has on the leg. He plans to refill his canteens before he leaves and leave as in as direct a route as he can manage. There’s still some fuel in the flame thrower; he just needs to figure out how to make sure he can carry out his pack, be prepared to defend himself, and do it all one handed if he’s using a crutch.

“Suck it up Winchester. Whining’s for babies.”

The Wendigo hasn’t shown up in a couple days; and John’s wondering if it gave up on him, or if it’s just waiting for him to pop up like some kind of whack-a-mole. John figures he’ll leave a bunch of his stuff behind to be able to travel faster. Tonight, he’ll try to get some shut eye. He plans to start at first light.

First though, he needs to write a note to Sam and Dean in the hopes that if he doesn’t make it, they’ll find out what happened someday.

Dear Dean and Sam, I hope you never see this letter. I hope I’m just being a little pessimistic and that I will be with you before Thanksgiving. But I needed to write this, in case. Dean, you know the deal about your Mom, and some day you’re going to explain it to Sammy. I know your lives have not been easy or normal, but I have always tried to keep you safe. It’s a hard thing for a man to realize he’s not doing the best job of that.

Your Mom and I – we had big plans for you boys. Colleges, careers, families. Things just haven’t turned out the way we planned at all. I know though how proud your Mom would be of you boys.  I know I’m proud of you. I wish things could have been different for all of us, and I’ll love you both forever. Your dad.


	8. Chapter 8

_*AN: The words are from John’s journal and his notes about Wendigos – the time and place is my interpretation.*_

November 23, 1988

Scenes of crawling back out of the ground usually symbolize rebirth or new purpose in movies and books. For John Winchester, it’s not. He is scrabbling up through the dirt and mud and slush to keep doing the same crappy job and live the same crappy life he has ever since Mary was killed. His joy in life was buried when the love of his life was.

Only right now he gets to face his less than joyous life with the added perk of an only partially healed leg. Some yellow-eyed son of a bitch somewhere was laughing at him. John’s not laughing. He went on long road marches in the Marines that didn’t exhaust him as much as shimmying his way up out of the cave at the break of dawn. But when there’s no helping something, better to bite the bullet and do what needs done. His mom taught him that.

As the dawn continues trying to lighten the sky through dense trees, John struggles out of the cave with his pack and collapses next to the hole in exhaustion. Step one of getting back to his boys has been accomplished. And he knows he needs to be there tomorrow - Thanksgiving. “You hear that Mary. Not giving up because I know you’d never forgive me if something happened to the boys.” John’s not embarrassed that his prayers are verbal letters to Mary, he’s just careful not to make them out loud while other people are around. He doesn’t have to worry about it here. In the eight days since he fell into the cave, he hasn’t heard anyone nearby except the Wendigo.

John took the time to sketch the monster into his journal which is tucked into the inside pocket of his coat. This one – so far from the normal habitat for Wendigos – has other unusual characteristics. While at least seven feet tall and thin past emaciated and into skeletal, the monster’s body has matted hair with noticeable breasts. Definitely female. The flashing eyes are a murky pea green, not the clear jewel tones of Mary’s or Dean’s. The mouth, horrible lips twisted and black, barely covers long yellowed fangs and a tongue bluish in hue. John looks around warily. The lore says Wendigos prefer darkness, not that they are nocturnal.

“Cannibalism plus magic equals a dark, dark road. I’ve never seen something so hungry.” John writes near the sketch. He hopes the boys never know what it’s like to feel so consumed from inside, like the overwhelming pressure he feels, the obsession, to find Mary’s killer. No amount of alcohol dulls his pain. Everything else he has to deal with, and –yeah, God help him, including the boys – is a distraction. “I hope the boys never understand how bad I am at – well, everything – without their mom.”

Using his makeshift crutch, John gains his feet, takes a bearing for direction and begins to head back toward the parking lot where Robertson’s truck should still be waiting. He buoyed by the thought that if he can push himself – he should be out of the forest by nightfall. Yeah, he won’t have the keys, but he learned how to hot wire a car from Bobby Singer. Robertson isn’t around to complain anyway. Once John gets back to his boys, he plans to turn this hunt back over to Bill Harvelle. Harvelle can gather a group of Hunters whose legs aren’t broken and whose heads aren’t too thick to be prepared. Wendigos are tricky, fast, and hard to kill.

John has two little boys who are probably worried about him by now, and he promised Sammy they’d have Thanksgiving.

. . . . . . .

November 25, 1988, afternoon

Not everyone is pleased that Dean talked Bobby into allowing him to go. Ellen started mumbling under her breath about idiot men who didn’t know how to say no to a child, a sick child at that. The other two guys are studiously said nothing to defend Bobby’s decision to his disgust. But the one who is most upset about the plan is Sam.

“Dean, don’t go.” Sammy clings to his big brother. “You can’t leave me here. Deeeaaannn.” Ending on a wail, Sammy takes a deep breath to start over again, but it’s difficult and messy with snot and tears streaming down his red face. Dean moves with his brother still practically hanging on him over toward a box of tissues and tries to mop up Sammy’s face as he bends a little to look his brother in the eye.

“Shhh, Sammy. You’ve got this all wrong. It’s okay, little brother. It’s okay.” Dean wipes Sammy’s face. “Blow.” Dean commands as he holds a tissue to the five-year-old’s nose, and the hiccupping little boy does. “Sammy, look at me.” Dean runs his fingers under his brother’s chin to raise his eyes. “Now, you trust me, right? Don’t I always take care of you? Don’t I always come back when I say I’m gonna? You know I’ll never leave you, Sammy, you’re my brother.” Sammy blearily nods. “I’m just going to go for a couple days. You’re not going to be alone – Pastor Jim and Mrs. Harvelle are both going to be here. You’ll get to be like the big brother to Jo. Okay?”

Sammy tries to snuggle closer, looking younger than his five and a half years. “But, Dean, I don’t want them. I want you.” He snuffles again. “What if you don’t come back, like Dad.” Then his tilted hazel eyes fix on his brother with a sad puppy dog expression as his lower lip quivers. But Dean is even more determined to find their father. He has kept his word, ate lunch, took medicine, even napped. Now he’s packed and planning to go find his dad – for Sam’s sake and his.

As Dean continues to calm Sammy, Pastor Jim and Bill Harvelle turn concerned eyes on Bobby Singer. “Just explain to me again how you got roped into agreeing to let a nine-year-old come with us on a hunt.” Harvelle sounds exasperated. The idea of actually letting a kid go with them makes no sense to him. At best, it will split their attention as the try to find the boy’s father. At worst – well, in their line of business, best not think about the worst. Then there’s the fact that Ellen is going to give him hell about it.

Bobby takes a hefty shot of Hunter’s Helper before the preacher removes it from his hand. When Bobby tries to take it back, Jim growls at him. “Not if you’re planning to drive with a kid in the car.” And Bobby lowers his hand with a sigh.

“Well, you told me to make it right with him.” Bobby trails off with a wave of his hand. “And, balls! I told you not to make me. That kid. I just…he…Well, I don’t know how he does it, but it ain’t my fault. Besides, he’s a Winchester. That stubborn don’t come with an age limit. We’d be there, and Ellen’d be calling saying he’s missing. Then we’d have to search for him too.” Bobby looks longingly at the whiskey bottle. “I’m getting a beer.” He stomps off to the kitchen.

Pastor Jim sighs. “He’s got a point you know - about Dean. Kid has a need to keep his people as close and safe as he can, like a sheep dog. Look at him, you’d think Sammy was his son not his brother.” He snorts. “I’m afraid he care takes John too.”

Bill scuffs his toe across the floor and grunts. “What he’s doing ain’t easy. But John and me – we’ve talked some. He’s trying to make them tough enough to survive, you know. This. It’s not like Dean doesn’t already know, and they’re not going to be able to keep Sammy ignorant much longer.” Bill shrugs.

Bobby comes over to the Winchester boys holding his duffel and Dean’s. “Tell your brother goodbye, and then you go climb into the backseat of that Chevelle. We’ve got ten hours of traveling ahead, and Ellen’s laid out a little nest back there. Pillows, a sleeping bag, the works. You know the deal, so…”

“Yes, sir.” Dean’s eager, but Ellen catches him one more time. Checks his temperature and has to admit it’s down under a hundred, barely. She hands him a care package with juices, water, Tylenol, cold medicine and some hard candy to soothe his throat. She also slips him a ten dollar bill. When he tries to give it back, she wraps her hand around his. “No, Dean. You give it back if you don’t use it, if you want. But if you end up needing to call us, you’ve got to have the money.”

With one last hug for his brother, Dean scampers into the car dressed in a warm parka and boots Pastor Jim had in a clothing relief box in the church basement. He crawls into the nest and falls asleep in minutes, completely comfortable sleeping in a car.

It leaves Bobby brooding though. That kid in the backseat is so trusting, so willing to help, and completely hardened to  this life that drives Bobby in search of a bottle. He peeks at the quietly snoring boy and allows himself to wonder what it would have been like to have a son. He wonders if he and Karen had had a kid or two, would he still have become a Hunter, like John Winchester, or would he have been concerned enough for his boys that he could have put his wife’s death aside and work toward giving his child the kind of life he never had. He hopes the latter.

But Bobby admits to himself that he’ll never really know the answer to that question, or what it’s like having a son. And somehow that thought makes him want to punch John Winchester again. And he knows that’s envy talking.


	9. Chapter 9

Evening November 23, 1988

The second time John Winchester stumbled over an exposed tree root, he couldn’t catch his balance and fell hard, scrambling around in the muck and fallen leaves to recover his homemade crutch after. He hasn’t made it half-way back to the parking lot and the sun is setting, and he has to admit to himself that things aren’t looking good for keeping his promise to Sammy. John drags out his sleeping bag and pulls himself in a circle around it, drawing out the Anasazi protection symbols on rocks with chalk before crawling into the bag.

Water he has, and digging through his pack, John finds his last power bar. Unwrapping it, he takes a bite and chews slowly, sipping water to make the mass in his mouth soft enough to swallow. Tasteless as it is, John knows it’s important to hydrate and eat to keep his strength up. But even if it didn’t already taste bad, eating makes John think about the boys and the forty dollars he left them for food more than three weeks ago, and the room rent that was due two days ago, and he’s off worrying. “So sorry, Mary. Such a screw up.” John starts his daily apology to the wife he failed about the sons he is failing.

There’s a rustling in the brush nearby, and John is glad he took the time to paint the protection symbols as he crans his head trying to see through the gloom. John reaches for his gun. The forest has plenty of dangerous animals, more though that would afraid of John. But for predators – the forest has black bears and feral hogs. Most people might be more worried about the bears, but they are more scavengers. Feral hogs are three to four hundred pounds of mean. And when pigs get to you, they rarely leave even bones. John wishes he had built a campfire because it is so dark in these woods that his eyesight couldn’t get any worse.

More rustling, and John is holding his breath, keeping his gun steadily pointing toward the noise. There’s a strange chittering, and John sees the Wendigo again, her emaciated frame barely visible outside the small circle, eyes glowing like coals in a fireplace. “Well, hello, ugly,” John mutters, still holding the gun and keeping his eyes on the monster while his other hand reaches into his backpack looking for his flare gun.

Laughter, a high-pitched crazy fearsome sound, fills the forest nearby as the Wendigo moves like a blur. She is so fast. John swivels trying to keep track, and he wishes he had something at his back. As he moves trying to keep the monster in sight, he kicks out and dislodges one of the rocks painted with protection symbols. Something strikes his head, and his world turns black.

. . . . . . .

The wee hours of November 26, 1988

Wide green eyes peeking out from the nest in the backseat looked back at Bobby Singer as the old Hunter pulled into a truck stop in Waynesville, Missouri. The trip took ten hours, slower than Bobby might have been able to make it except the roads were icy and slick through Minnesota and Iowa. Bobby had thought having a kid along would be what would slow him down, but unless he was spoken to, Dean hadn’t asked for anything the entire way, content to stop only when Bobby needed to gas or eat.

While admitting it was unexpected for a kid to travel that long that quietly, Bobby worried Dean was too well trained for a nine-year-old squirt. Kids aren’t supposed to be that quiet and obedient. Every once in a while, when Bobby noticed Dean was awake, he’d ask a question or two, just to make sure the kid hadn’t lapsed back into the mutism he’d had when Bobby first met him at age five.

Mostly though, all Dean was thinking about was how worried he was about his dad. How he hoped Sammy would be taken care of in his absence, and whether Dean could do anything to make the trip easier on Bobby. Idgit kid is a little too selfless in Bobby’s opinion. He’d much rather the kid put himself equal if nor first occasionally. Damn fool kid is gonna end up a head case if he doesn’t start to learn a little healthy selfishness.

“You need anything, kid?” Bobby asks as he undoes his seatbelt and stretches,

“No, sir. I’m good.” Dean is answering bravely, but his voice is almost as gruff as Bobby’s. The older guy thinks about kicking himself – before Ellen Harvelle can.

“How you feeling, Bud?” Bobby turns sideways in his seat to get a better look. He notices Dean trying to swallow and wincing a little in pain. “Sit up.” Bobby demands, and he isn’t surprised that his order is obeyed immediately. Throwing off the covers, Dean sits up, but then he starts shivering. Bobby grabs the care package Ellen sent along and doses Dean with Tylenol and cold medicine again. He then pushes a bottle of water toward the boy. “Drink that.”

Dean takes the bottle, sips, clears his throat a little. “Are we….are we near where my dad’s missing?”

“Yeah, Harvelle and his guys are gonna meet us here. Then we’ll head over to the national forest. I’m going in to get some sandwiches and coffee. I’m getting you soup and hot tea. And you’re going finish it all. Then you’re going back ta sleep until we get there. Am I clear?”

Bobby doesn’t need to hear the boy’s mumbled agreement. He knows it’s coming. “I’m taking the keys, so you get under the blankets back there. Can’t have someone steal you along with the car.” But it’s grumbling just to grumble, and Dean snuggles in closing his eyes for now.

While Bobby was still placing his order, Bill Harvelle showed up with Joshua and Creedy, and the four men moved to a booth to go over their notes and maps. The National Forest is huge, and the men need to have their routes chosen carefully. The new men are taken aback that a nine year old will be the relay point for communications, and only slightly less surprised at finding out it’s John Winchester’s son.

“Winchester has a son?” Creedy asks, genuinely puzzled. “I’ve seen him several times – even gone on a couple hunts with him. Never seen no kid. And he sure never seems in a big hurry to leave the bar. He got a woman looking after the kid? A wife maybe?”

Bobby and Harvelle exchange an unspoken agreement in a look. They’re not getting into John’s personal life or history; they’re not going to commiserate or agree; they’re just going to do their job – and have their own words with John Winchester privately. After they get his dumb ass back home for his boys.

“So where is this kid?” Joshua asks, and it’s Bobby’s turn to face dumbfounded expressions when he says the boy is sleeping in the backseat of his car, and he has been the whole time Bobby’s been in there.

Harvelle shoots Bobby a look. “Thought maybe you got a room for the kid to sleep while we planned. Didn’t know you were leaving him outside in this cold.”

“Well, balls!” Bobby’s upset at himself for not paying attention to the time. “I wasn’t expecting you and he was sleeping.” The older hunter grumbles. “Let me order him his food and I’ll meet you there.”

. . . . . . .

November 24, 1988

The dryness of his mouth is the first thing John recognizes as he regains consciousness. The second in the tingling in his hands tied over his head and the pain in his head. He’s tied in somewhere dank, foul smelling, dark, but with enough light filtering in from somewhere that he knows he has been out for a while. That’s natural light, so it must be day. He’s been moved, and from the shapes he sees hanging near him, he’s not alone. He needs to know if any of them are still alive. If he’s the only one.

John tries to clear his throat. “Hello?” It’s gravelly, but understandable. He tries again with more volume. “Hello?”

“Winchester?”

“Yeah, it’s me. That you, Robertson?”

The other hunter answers with a groan. “Damn, yeah, it’s me. I was hoping you were gone - that you were getting help. Don’t tell me that you didn’t, ‘cause it’s been a week.”

“Then I won’t tell you that I just spent the last week with a broken leg on the floor of a cave.” John huffs out. He’s actually more annoyed at himself than Robertson. This has been one screw up after another on his part. Now he’s trussed up like a Thanksgiving bird with nowhere to go except to feed a monster. He’s teetering on one good leg with a split head, and he’s god only knows where in a more than one-million acre forest.

On the plus side, John’s not alone. “Anyone else in here still alive?”

“Nuh.” Robertson mutters. “That thing…”

“Wendigo,” John supplies, not stopping a little bit of “I told you so” from coming through.

“Yeah, you were right. That feel good right now?” Robertson hisses.

John gives as much of a shrug as he can manage.

“Don’t look like your protection symbols did you much good.”

“Yeah, well, about that. Seems you should pick bigger rocks.” John gives a deprecating laugh and tries, again, to shrug. “Live and learn…if we live.”

. . . . . . .

November 26, 1988 Dawn

Only thirty minutes have gone by since the hunters had taken off into the woods, but an awake Dean left alone in the car was getting restless, and he couldn’t seem to find the right temperature. Not under the blankets or wrapped in the sleeping bag, he’s cold; inside the nest, he’s too warm. He ate the soup earlier, even though it hurt his throat to swallow, and he drank the tea. And now, he’s got to pee.

Dean roots around until he finds the boots Pastor Jim gave him, and he ties them on. He pulls on the warm jacket, pulling a stocking cap out of the pocket to pull onto his head which is achy and dizzy. He looks over toward the park headquarters which is still closed at this hour, and he decides he’ll just walk into the woods a little way and find a tree.

Dean pushes open the car door and climbs out a little shakily. The parking lot has a little bit of gray crusty slush, where the snow has melted and then refrozen overnight. Dean tucks his hands in his pockets as he hurries over to the trail head, and he looks around to make sure no one’s there.

On the way back out, Dean isn’t quite as cautious and keeps his head down as he hurries back out of the woods. Standing right next to Bobby’s car, Dean runs right into a park ranger.

“Whoa, there, Tiger.” The ranger reaches out and grabs him by the shoulder, steadying him. “Where you going? And where’s your folks?”


	10. Chapter 10

November 26, 1988

The ranger station for this section of Mark Twain National Forest off Highway 63 is a long low gray building, and Dean enters in front of the ranger dragging his feet over the nondescript industrial grade carpeting. In Dean’s hand is the walkie talkie that connects him to Bobby Singer. And as he is walking, the nine year old is pressing the talk button in a series of dots and a dash, hoping his “Uncle Bobby” gets the message.

Ranger Carl Adams let the boy gather his walkie talkie from the car, but he has kept a hand on his shoulder guiding the boy into the building. Some sixth sense there’s something wrong with this situation, and he doesn’t want to end up physically chasing this skittish kid. With one hand keeping the boy pointed in the right direction, Ranger Adams uses the other to flip on light switches and turn the heat up in the center.

“Take a seat over there,” the ranger directs Dean onto a faux leather couch in a small office. “Then you and me need to talk.” Dean turns distrusting eyes towards him. He knows he isn’t supposed to let himself be caught, and he’s not allowed to draw attention to himself. Dad’s told him that every time he’s left him and Sammy in a motel room.

Dean’s thinking about what he can safely add to the story he already told the ranger when he bumped into him next to Bobby Singer’s Chevelle. Uncle Bobby has Dean for the holiday, and they were planning to hike, but Dean must have been asleep when they got there, and he’s sure his uncle will be there in just a moment. He wouldn’t have gone far.

Then Dean gets an idea. “Hey, Mister Ranger, I heard a story that lots of people go missing in these woods. Seven just recently, my uncle said. Do you think he’s gone missing too?”

Ranger Adams frowns. There have been reports of missing hikers and hunters, but part of it is just the vastness of the wilderness and the fact that there’s not really a way to get everyone to check in and out in one place. “I don’t think you need to worry about that.” He dismisses the boy’s concern.

“Well, maybe they fell into a cave.” Dean tries again even though talking is still painful from his sore throat. “There’s caves here, right? Or maybe a monster got them?” He opens his eyes wide trying his best to look like a scared little boy. “Do you think that’s what happened?”

The ranger actually gets out a map showing the cave systems in an effort to calm the boys down. “See, it’s miles until any cave system on that trail,” Adams adds. Dean gives a few dry coughs and rubs his throat. “Could I get some water please?” The ranger promises him one better, instant hot chocolate. He leaves the office to go make it, and Dean pulls out a piece of paper and begins to trace the cave system, adding GPS coordinates. He works quickly and puts away the notebook just as the ranger returns.

“Let me see that walkie talkie so we can figure out where your uncle is,” the ranger begins, but then he hears a pounding on the door and a gruff voice calling for help.

“Anybody in there? I need help. There’s a kid lost.” Dean bites his lip and lowers his head to hide a smile before jumping up and rushing toward the door. “Uncle Bobby!” He yells, grinning because he can tell Bobby got his Morse Code message. He throws open the door and before the ranger can stop him; he throws himself into the older hunter’s arms.

Bobby’s practically smothers Dean in a bear hug, playing his role to the hilt. “Dean! Damn boy. What the Hell were you thinking? You scared me half to death. I’ve been looking everywhere.” And while Bobby is playing the part Dean sent him via code, the hug he gives is real. He was horrified when Dean let him know a park ranger had scooped him up as an unattended child. And Bobby felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite too. Hadn’t he been damning John Winchester for leaving this same kid alone to fend for himself?

The park ranger shrugs this one off. Maybe he jumped the gun a little, let the cold dictate how quickly he moved the boy inside. If this uncle has been looking for him this entire time then the kid wasn’t abandoned. He hands Dean back his handset as he prepares to send them off. “So, can I ask why you left the kid alone?” Ranger Adams starts.

Bobby turns a deep red. Dean thought this part up too, but Bobby was hoping not to have to use it. “Well, I was, umm, doing what a bear does in the woods.” Bobby mutters, pulling Dean in closer as the both starts erupting into giggles. “The boy was sleeping, and, umm, well, it’s not like I wanted him along for it. Anyways, I came back, and he was gone.”

Adams can see these two know each other, are affectionate, and the excuse makes sense. The uncle had to go after a long drive. While the uncle was taking care of business, the boy woke with a need of his own. He decides everything ended okay, so he just reminds them that no one should go hiking into the woods alone. First the ranger takes Bobby slightly aside, letting him know the kid seemed to have a cold or the flu. Bobby grunts acknowledgement. And then the ranger ends by cautioning them both. “You all have fun, but be careful.”

“Careful, as in not getting caught.” Bobby mutters grumpily to Dean as he takes a moment outside the door to pull Dean’s hat from his pocket and push it back down on his head, checking for fever and looking displeased by what he finds. “But that signaling – that was quick thinking.” He adds, and Dean looks up with a proud grin.

As Bobby and Dean head back toward the car, Dean pulls out the drawings he made in the ranger’s office. “Uncle Bobby, I think we’re starting in the wrong place. First of all, there’re no other cars here. And second, this is where there’s a cave system – about ten miles north of here. I think we should call the other hunters back and move up toward this place called Devil’s Elbow near the river there.”

Bobby chews on his lip a little. “Kid, I like you. You’re smart, resourceful, and already a better hunter than a lot of men I know, but I’m heading into town to get you a motel room. You ain’t well yet, and I ain’t going to be the fool who drags a sick kid into the woods. Because you deserve that, and not doing that - that’s just not who I am.”

**. . . . . . .**

Thanksgiving evening, November 24, 1988

The past five years John Winchester hasn’t spent much time giving thanks and counting his blessings, but he’ll make an exception today. It’s a sorry state of being though, when what you are most thankful for is that the monstrous - practically preying mantis looking - Wendigo seems content to gnaw on the arm of a dead body trussed next to you in its dank lair instead of on you. “I’m thankful it’s not eating me. I’m thankful it ain’t biting a live person. I’m thankful to still be alive because I can still hope to get out of here and back to my boys.”

John’s litany may be short and done silently, but it’s heartfelt. His list of things he could do without is longer, but given today’s a holiday it seems fitting that he acknowledge the good first. The bad, hanging like a sausage over the rafters for later provisions, that’s bad. The pain in his wrists and shoulders, ditto. The broken leg he has to take some weight on. The growing thirst. The need to relieve himself. The pain in his head where the monster hit him, probably with a rock. Being separated from the boys when he knows they’ve got to be worried. And finally – losing Mary – and losing the chance to make that demon pay for taking her. Yeah, the negatives are far outweighing the positives.

He’s been hanging here for hours, watching the slow crawl of sunlight travel across the mouth of the lair. Sometimes he’s lucky and he dozes through the pain and discomfort, but mostly he has been awake and aware. His eyesight sharpened as his eyes grow accustomed to the lighting. His military mind taking stock of the situation. The lair is old and dilapidated. It’s above ground, an old barn, maybe?

Including John, there are eleven hanging humans; the Wendigo’s harvest, gathered to see her through the winter or however the hell long she’ll hibernate when she is sated. Only John and Paul Robertson are alive, and both of them are injured. John still has his leather coat on, add that to the thankful pile because it provides some warmth at least, but it’s hanging open. He has a lighter in his coat pocket and a knife. If he can work an arm free, he has tools to fight back.

John must have been drifting because he’s startled when the Wendigo is suddenly right in front of him. Its breath is foul and warm as it sniffs along his shoulder and into his neck, like a lover might. John shudders and jerks away. The loose gray lips purse, and the Wendigo lifts a long claw on an elongated hand and slices his cheek. Blood wells from the cut, as surely as though it had used a razor. She runs her finger down the cut gathering blood and sticks her finger in her mouth sucking it off her finger lewdly.

Next, as John watches because he’s afraid to look away, the monster hooks her claw into the fabric of his tee-shirt and rips it open as easily as scissors might. Her puke green eyes hold his gaze as she laughs. John’s chest is bared to his naval, and the monster draws circles with her clawlike fingernails, tracing muscles and circling his nipples. She is making incisions like paper cuts. John winces, and she chitters.

At John’s gasp, Robertson feels compelled to try to help, his voice cracking with thirst. “Winchester. Just stay still. She did this to my friend George. Seems to like to play with her food.” Whatever Robertson intended, his voice draws the Wendigo to him. It is no lover’s caress as she slashes at his chest, but it is a sick parody as she leans in lapping at the streaming blood as he screams.

John takes advantage of her inattention to struggle harder. Being killed on the job is something he has contemplated. Being molested by a monster isn’t. Robertson’s screams turn into broken sobbing as John starts to use the blood from his wrists to lubricate his hands as he tries to release himself.


	11. Chapter 11

November 25, 1988, morning

Still alive. He’s still alive, so there’s still hope for him. John Winchester’s mind is skittering around on that idea like some kind of gerbil on ice. He’s trying hard not to think about how he watched Paul Robertson screaming while the Wendigo pulled out his intestines yesterday. Yes, yesterday. John knows he’s missing some time, and that dehydration is starting to make him fuzzy.

Yesterday the Wendigo ate parts of Robertson right in front of him, and the other Hunter died screaming. John’s pretty sure that’s something he’ll never forget.

His wrists are bleeding and hurt, and John doesn’t care. He knows why some animals will chew off their legs to get out of a trap. His level of fear after what he saw, what he knows will be his fate, is overwhelming. He struggles to try to loosen the ropes on at least one hand. One hand free, he could reach his pocket knife. His lighter. His journal is in his coat pocket, at much as he’d rather not use it as kindling, it would burn. He’d rather burn than die like Robertson did. John’s been told the trick is to inhale the smoke and suffocate before the flames get you.

Up in flames, like Mary. His Mary. John’s mind wanders to earlier days. He pictures Mary when he met her. Mary was a month short of turning twenty-nine when she died, just a year younger than John. He thinks about how whenever she smiled, it seemed like the sun came out. The bounce of her blonde hair. The curve of her lips. The unexpected strength in her arms when she saved him from drowning on their honeymoon. He remembers how important it was to her that they be a normal family. He thinks of how fiercely she loved her sons.

John doesn’t know, so he can’t think about, how it was a high-priority match for Cupids under Heaven’s control to bring the two of them together, a Campbell hunter and a Winchester legacy to the Men of Letters. And while the night that both her parents died was traumatic for him too, he did not know that she traded that visit to the nursery for his life. He will never know that the interference from Heaven and Hell is what makes the wound from her death still seem so fresh, the obsession so mind consuming.

Mary’s death is as fresh to him today as it was five years ago – just like powerful unseen forces want it to be. The wound that never heals is the impetus driving John to raise the boys the way he does, the way that leads to self-sacrifice and the apocalypse.

Heaven needs John to keep doing what he’s doing with the boys.

. . . . . . .

November 26, 1988, morning

The motel they stop at has a familiar big black car parked out front. Bobby talked to the manager once, and he even paid up the back rent on the room. The he decides that maybe Dean should stay there. “Just in case your dad finds his way back here.”

“Uncle Bobby, you promised!” Dean is twisting around as well as he can to confront Bobby Singer, who has a grip on the back of his jacket and is steering the boy in front of him toward a motel office. At four foot tall and less than sixty pounds, Dean is small for his age, kind of scrawny. What he does have is wiry muscle where most kids haven’t developed any yet. That and a determination few people ever find.

Dean digs his heels in, and the pair stops. “Uncle Bobby, I can’t let you do this.” Dean says again, but this time he sounds resolved, and Bobby’s wondering what the boy’s planning. “I’m going to scream. And people are going to wonder what’s up. Then, just like they teach us in school, I’m gonna start yelling ‘He’s not my father.’”

“I oughta…” Bobby sputters off, and then he decides not to be out-smarted by this smart alec kid. “Dean, kid, you’re sick, and I was a damn fool to let you talk me into bringing you along to begin with.” Bobby crouches down a little. “We just almost lost ya to a park ranger. I can’t … oh balls … I can’t lose ya, and I can’t babysit ya. I’m just trying to do what’s best for ya, kid.” Dean straightens and his face draws into a frown. Bobby keeps talking, not letting the boy interrupt, or scream.

“You’ve already been a big help getting us a better location idea and a map of the caves. So don’t think we won’t let yer dad know how helpful ya were. But we’ve looked over the research, and we’re pretty sure we’re dealing with a Wendigo – damn strange place for one – but that’s what it is. You ain’t big enough for this. They’re too fast and strong. And if they catch ya, they eat….” Bobby trails off as Dean’s face gets paler.

“You think Dad got eaten?” It’s shaky and not much above a whisper, but Dean gets it out.

“Don’t be putting words in my mouth.” Bobby cuts him off. “That’s not what I said. I said it was too fast for you.”

“I’m faster than you.” Dean confronts the older Hunter.

“…and strong.” Bobby keeps going.

Dean shrugs. “It’d have to catch me first.”

“No, it won’t!” Bobby’s patience is gone as he snaps at the boy and gives him a little shake. “Cause I ain’t letting you go out into those woods. You ain’t ready for that yet, no matter how big you think you are. You ain’t. You’re a little squirt who’ll get one of us killed if we take you along.”

Dean’s chin gives a wobble and his lower lip trembles before he bites it almost hard enough to draw blood as he fights to get his feelings under control. His already red-rimmed from illness eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill over. Bobby’s watching him carefully, but even tearing up he doesn’t see any signs of Dean giving in. He gives a big sigh.

“Alright. First – We need to eat. We’re going into that diner there and have breakfast and talk. Go in and get us a table, will ya? I’m going to call Harvelle and the others.” Dean eyes him suspiciously. “I’m not going to ditch you there. Order me coffee, and the breakfast special, over easy if it’s eggs. Get yourself some food and a big glass of orange juice.”

Bobby watches Dean head to the restaurant as he reaches for the walkie talkie to make plans with the other hunters. Then he makes a stop at the drug store before heading into the diner himself.

Harvelle, Joshua, and Creedy show up before Bobby and Dean’s food is even served, and they all sit in a booth around the table going over the new plan and eating. The best bet as far as cave formations also happens to be not far from a road, and Harvelle has driven near to see an old homestead peeking through the autumn bare trees. He says there’s a truck parked not too far off the road that he thinks must be Robertson’s.

As the hunters plan, Bobby pours a measured amount of a dark green liquid into the plastic cup and has Dean take it. “It’s cold medicine.”  Twenty minutes go by before Dean’s head droops onto Bobby’s shoulder. Joshua helps Bobby get the sleeping boy out of the booth to the motel room across the parking lot.

Folding back the bedspread, Bobby arranges Dean carefully on the mattress, pulling off his shoes and coat, and stroking his hair gently when he stirs a little until it’s obvious the boy is deeply asleep again. He leaves juice and some wrapped sandwiches on the table. Bobby sets the bottle of Nyquil down next to a box of Sominex and writes a short note to Dean while the other hunter lays salt lines.

 _Dean, if you wake up before I get back, stay put. We plan to bring your dad here once we find him in case he needs patching up. If we aren’t back before morning, call Pastor Jim. I’m sorry it came to this boy, but someday you’ll understand why I couldn’t take chances with your life._  Bobby looks the note back over, hesitating before signing it _Uncle Bobby_. Leaving the note near the food, Bobby tucks a folding buck knife under Dean’s pillow.

“Damn fool stubborn Winchester,” he murmurs.

. . . . . . .

November 25, 1988 afternoon

One hand is free, and John uses it to get out his knife to saw at the other binding. The pain in his shoulders and barely healing broken leg is excruciating, pulsing in time to his heightened heartbeat. He knows he’s in too rough a shape to make a run for it, but he has a plan. Finally free, John shuffles to grab his back pack and rifle through some of the others near him, collecting canteens, food, medical supplies, and other useful items as quickly as he can. He moves cautiously toward the light, and as he draws closer he can see he’s in some sort of old barn.

Thinking back, John remembers there was a ramshackle old homestead not too far from where Robertson parked. He wants to kick himself for not checking it out back then. The only good news is John’s pretty sure that if he sets it on fire, the park rangers and forestry people will be able to reach his location.

One step at a time though. John paces off a circle wide enough for him to stretch out, and he uses spray paint to draw the Anasazi protection symbols right on the floor. Crawling back into the center where he left the supplies he had gathered. First, John shakes all the canteens, finding one mostly full, he opens it and takes a small sip, knowing that if he does not do it slowly he will vomit. After a few more sips, John takes out a first aid kit and begins to patch himself up.

When he looks up from his task, he sees the Wendigo is back, and she is studying him.

“Not this time, bitch.” John’s muttering darkly. He pulls out some medical gauze and lighter fluid and starts making a Molotov cocktail. Whether the monster understood the significance, John doesn’t know. But as he finishes, the monster is nowhere in sight and the late fall sun has started to set. He takes the time to pull on the shirt he took from Robertson’s pack, and eat a power bar. Nighttime will give the Wendigo an unfair advantage. He can wait until dawn.


	12. Chapter 12

November 26, 1988 afternoon

Cold medicine mixed with a sleeping pill knocked Dean out for a solid eight hours before he struggles to open his eyes midafternoon. He groans because his head hurts so badly, wiping gummed over eyes. The nine year old flounders out of the bed in a nondescript motel room he doesn’t remember ever seeing in before. That part doesn’t worry him too much; he’s seen plenty of motel rooms. Instead he looks around woozily wondering where his little brother is.

“Sammy?” But even as Dean calls out for his little brother, he starts to remember. He left Sam with Pastor Jim and Ellen Harvelle in Blue Earth. Minnesota. He came here to Missouri to find his father with the Hunters. Memory slowly returns and tears help clear his eyes. Uncle Bobby – no, Bobby Singer betrayed him. Instead of taking him with the other Hunters into the forest, he drugged him and left him in a motel room. Dean pushes the hurt from that down deep, taking a few breaths to get steady again. He scolds himself for trusting the older man – he knows better. Can’t really trust anyone but yourself. And that thought gives him a panicked moment of worry over his little brother. Sammy is his responsibility, and it feels…wrong not to have him nearby.

Now that he’s more awake, Dean realizes that he actually is feeling a little better. Whatever virus has been kicking his butt seems to have loosened its hold some. His chest feels less tight, fever’s gone, at least for now, and the lead weight feel in his arms and legs has disappeared. Dean washes up in the restroom and realizes he feels better than he has in days. He spots the food and juice on the table and checks it carefully for tampering before eating a sandwich. And while he’s there, he reads Bobby’s note, snorting. Yeah, right, everyone does things for “his own good” instead of trusting him to know how to take care of himself. Dad knows better. Dean can take care of Sammy and himself just fine.

Right now, though, the nine year old is in some crappy motel several miles from the area of the forest where his dad needs help. Dean knows the other Hunters are most likely searching the area and caves, trying to avoid a Wendigo and the park rangers. He had been listening carefully at the breakfast this morning, and heard them talk about Anasazi symbols for protection and fire as the weapon of choice. They stranded Dean, unless he can find a way to get closer to the parking area his time would be wasted walking closer to the area they figure his dad is in. He figures he has about two hours until sunset, and no supplies except a sandwich, a juice, and a knife. And then he remembers that their car is parked outside.

Dean smiles to himself, the car, the Impala is his home, and he knows that the trunk has weapons and medical supplies. He has helped sort and arrange these supplies and knows where there’s a flashlight and an extra duffel he can use, and Dean knows there’s a key hidden in a magnetic box near the front tire for emergencies. That knowledge helps him make his decision.

Dean puts on the warm coat and hat that Pastor Jim gave him, and ties on the boots. He stuffs the knife and food stuff in his pockets, and heads out for his father’s 1967 Chevy. While he has moved the big black car before for his dad, the Impala is hard to drive when your legs aren’t very long. Glancing around carefully, Dean retrieves the key, and then he moves the seat forward as close as he can and gets behind the wheel. He starts the big engine and backs up slowly, praying that football games on TV this holiday weekend will leave the roads bare as he struggles a little bit getting the car on the road that goes through Mark Twain National Forest.

,. . . . . .

Crazed laughter rings through the woods as the four Hunters stand in a loose square, covering each other’s back with flame throwers, as they face woods where the sound bounces around not letting them pinpoint the monster’s location. The men had spent the morning checking out the cave system, and then reformed to head toward the old homestead. They have a pretty good idea that that must be the Wendigo’s lair because the thing has done its best to drive them away ever since they’ve drawn closer.

The chill autumn day has been drab and overcast, growing colder with that biting intensity that heralds precipitation. A few drops of freezing rain have fallen even through the branches of the tall trees. Clearings and the rocks an dead leaves under the trees are growing more slippery. Almost all the men have fallen at least once, but the men managed to drive the monster away to allow the other to regain his feet. All of them have been hit by rocks or tree branches, too, with cuts and bruises to prove it.

Bobby wonders if the harrying isn’t planned. “Bill, if we all keep shooting flames at that damned thing, we’re gonna run out of fuel. We need to find somewhere more defensible. Draw some of those symbols.”

Bill Harvelle grunts. Last time he fell, he bruised his hip pretty badly. Between moving and stopping and the biting cold, the hip is becoming stiff and he’s showing a definite limp. “Hell, Singer, I know that. I’m just not sure if this thing is herding us to its pantry or chasing us away. And as much as I don’t want to make it easy on this thing, we need to get in there to look for Winchester and Robertson.”

Creedy has been inching his way backwards until he is standing almost back-to-back with Joshua. “Whatever we’re doing, we need to do it quick before that thing chucks more tree branches or rocks at us. This is your hunt, Harvelle. Call it – do we cut and run or make a dash for that bermed barn there.” The ramshackled out-building was set partially into a natural cave shelter, berming it from the elements on three sides. While there were remnants of a chimney, the homestead itself had been worn away by time. As the hunters draw closer, they start smelling the unmistakable stench of rotting meat.

“Well, I think that settles whether it’s that thing’s lair.” Bobby drawls. “Now the question is how much of a trap is it to go in there?”

Harvelle shakes his head, and then shrugs. “We need to check it out. And we need to regroup and come up with a plan of attack. That roof’ll keep the worst of this freaking cold rain off us.”

Bobby nods in agreement. “Okay, so we stay back to back and move together toward the door on one…two…three.”

. . . . . . .

John Winchester’s as comfortable as he can make himself on the ground. He is still safely within his circle reclining on a sleeping bag, but he is woozy from blood loss and thirst. John has tied strips of clothing into bandages to cover the gouges left by the Wendigo, but blood continues to seep through. The stress of this hunt, the broken leg, the fall into the cave, the blood-letting have all combined to exhaust him. The cold has started to settle down into his bones, and John is pretty sure he’s dying.

The Wendigo has been there creepily staring at him off and on. He can tell she is trying to assess the situation and find another way to get him, or even to get past him to munch on her other pieces of hung meat. John has cut her off from her food supply. “Yeah, well, maybe I can starve you to death.” He mutters angrily when she returns again chittering at him. “We’ll die together.”

John has dozed off and on, but he’s pretty sure it’s still Saturday, afternoon, by the sun’s position. Two full days past when he promised his baby boy he would be back no later than – scout’s honor, pinky promise. John wonders how the boys are doing, and if – with him gone – Sam and Dean’ll be strong enough to face what’s coming in their future. He figures he’s done what he could to make Dean ready, and that Dean has already replaced him as a parent for Sam.

Tiredness has been crashing over John, and he is starting to not care any more, starting to think going to sleep and not waking up would be so much easier than what he has lived with all his life. An absent father, a working mother, the loneliness of an only child, the isolation of poverty, the horror of war. For ten years though, he had love. He had Mary, and although it wasn’t easy and he lacked a road map or compass for how to succeed in a relationship, Mary had enough persistence for both of them. John feels like he is fading and he may be hallucinating because he’s being surrounded by voices.

“He’s alive. Here, get into the circle. Get in my pack – there’s a medical kit. Damn his pulse is thready. I need that IV kit – do you know how to set that up, Harvelle? Creedy. Hold him. I need to clean these out so I can stitch him up.” Bobby is working furiously on the boys’ father.  

The protective runes are keeping the Wendigo out, and as Bobby works on John Winchester, Harvelle checks over the other victims. They are all dead. He cuts them down and begins collecting identifications and useful items from their packs, especially anything the Hunters will be able to use as weapons. He sets Joshua to work gathering paper and anything that will work as kindling. To keep the supernatural secret from the world, Harvelle is sure they will need to salt and burn the bodies along with the monster’s. which he is now more determined to kill.

“Huh! Singer. Didn’t expect you.” John’s voice is barely above a whisper. He is grimy, but so pale that his skin almost glows under the dirt and thick scruffy beard.

“Why not?” Bobby snorts. “I ain’t killed you yet, so I obviously want you alive for some reason.” His words are a tad harsh, but his hands are gentle as he cleans, stitches, and bandages John’s many injuries. He uses a hunting knife to slice open the leg of John’s jeans before setting to work binding the broken leg better.

John tries to shrug, but Creedy is holding him down. “Can’t think why that might be.”

Bobby Singer shakes his head at the younger Hunter. “Don”t be an idgit, Winchester. I ain’t letting you die because I promised those boys I’d get you back safe to them. So you better just nut up and live, man. They ain’t losing you like they lost their ma. They deserve better.”

As the Hunters finish their tasks, they come closer to Bobby and John. Harvelle brings with him the wheel from an old car tire, and he builds a fire in it. The men gather closer, the way mankind always has, letting the light and heat soothe them….keeping the monster at bay for a time.


	13. Chapter 13

November 26, 1988

Freezing rain, also known as an ice storm, results in the most hazardous of travel situations. Since the cold rain falls but coats surfaces before freezing the roads quickly become lined with cars in ditches. The coating on power lines and trees branches can carry thirty times the original weight, frequently causing them to snap, and those lines and branches fall alongside or in roads making obstacles even serious drivers swerve to avoid. Weathermen universally advise against traveling in an ice storm.

Dean hasn’t been watching any weather reports, and he is no where near an experienced driver. Moving the car a couple of times for his dad don’t add up to all that. But he has grown up in the car and has an almost instinctual feel for it. As he is heading into Mark Twain National Forest the storm begins to pick up in intensity. Fortunately for him, there are no other cars in sight.

Dean slows to practically a stop – almost standing to see better over the steering wheel and perching precariously on the seat’s edge. He leaves off the seat belt. He carefully corrects the car’s trajectory several times, skidding lightly across black ice before steering gently back into the middle of the road, straddling the yellow line. His eyes dart to every road sign searching for the parking area nearest his destination.

What would normally be a five minute drive takes Dean thirty with the scariest part coming at the end. As the nine year old turns toward the parking area, the car slides looping in a one-hundred-and-eighty degree turn before stalling out. Dean is tossed into the steering wheel and his nose starts bleeding. He grabs paper napkins from the glove box to staunch his nose as he sits trying to get his shaking body under control. He almost hurt the car. Dad will kill him if he puts a dent on it.

Dean finishes wiping blood from his face, and stretches trying to make the aches his body feels from being thrown around the car ease. Pushing open the heavy door and gingerly climbing out, Dean steadies himself against the big black car as he circles it, checking for scratches. He takes in the other cars parked in the lot, noticing Bobby Singer’s Chevelle and Bill Harvelle’s pickup.

It is cold, but not as wet under the shelter of big trees. He is shaking with adrenaline and relief when he sees that the car is fine. With no one around to see, the nine-year-old gives in to his fear and sits leaning against the rear wheel for a moment crying. He puffs out breath and watches as it forms a white cloud. The damp and cold seep into his body, and he shivers.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He tells himself, pulled into a ball with his arms around his knees to comfort himself and stop trembling. Then because he can hear his father’s voice in his head, he straightens and wipes his eyes and nose of his coat sleeve. “Buck up, Dean. We don’t have time for you to act like a big baby.”

Dean bites his lower lip and straightens up, moving back inside to get the key so he can gather supplies from the trunk. A canteen, power bars, first aid kit, emergency blanket, and a few other supplies go into a backpack which the boy slips onto his shoulders, tightening the straps to fit him. He finds one of his father’s belts and wraps it twice around his waist outside the coat, using the excess to hold a machete he wears like a sword. He finds a flare gun and loads it, slipping it and two extra rounds in his coat pocket. Finally, he takes a long metal flashlight under his elbow while he shuts the trunk.

Closing his eyes, Dean mentally pictures the map he saw earlier in the park ranger’s office, remembering where the old homestead is located. When he opens his eyes, Dean allows himself a moment for his eyes to grow accustomed to the gathering dusk before locating a trail that leads in the direction he wants to go. He steps carefully, avoiding rocks and slippery piles of leaves. His light weight and thin form allow him to travel the animal track as silently as one of the deer.

Dean finds himself praying, and calls himself a big baby for it. Mom might have said angels were watching over him, but if they are they sure haven’t intervened to stop anything bad from happening. What he does know is that he needs his dad, he needs what little family he has, and he has no one to rely on except himself.

. . . . . . .

It doesn’t take long after finding him before Bobby Singer is wishing John Winchester was still unconscious. After the older hunter patched up the younger widower, John has figured out that Bobby brought his young son along on the rescue. Ever since then the two have been sniping at each other - John at Bobby for bringing Dean; Bobby at John for leaving the boys behind. The other three hunters are alternating between amused and annoyed as the two men bicker like an old unhappily married couple.

“He’s a kid, Singer. Dean sure as hell isn’t ready for a Wendigo hunt!” John bellows his outrage. “I left him safe in Iowa.”

Bobby almost growls his response. “He’s a kid you numbskull, he sure as hell shouldn’t be the sole parent for a five year old. You left those two boys without money for food and shelter. You’re damn lucky the state didn’t take ‘em.”

“They had enough if I hadn’t broken my damn leg. And Dean knows if I’m not back on time to call Jim Murphy. So where is Dean? Where’d you leave him?” John spits out the question, and Bobby lowers his eyes. He knows that the answer is going to make him sound like a fool. First, he let a kid who hasn’t even reached double digits manipulate him into bringing him on a hunt, and second because he had to drug him to get him to stay behind. If he’s lucky, John Winchester will never know the kid’s been sick on top of that.

“Will you two cut it the hell out! We got other things to worry about right now.” Bill Harvelle is contemplating knocking them both out, except it’s going to be hard enough to move the group because of John’s broken leg, his own bruised hip, and the various head injuries the group has suffered under the Wendigo’s barrage of thrown rocks and tree branches. The only good thing about the attacks is the branches can be broken and added to the small fire.

“Listen up!” Harvelle’s tired, sore, grumpy and ready to get back to his wife and child. “We’ve got five Hunters here versus one Wendigo. We’re armed. Ain’t none of us helpless, except maybe Winchester over there.” John glares. “So I say we take this bitch down and head back to Minnesota.”

“What we got is too many chiefs and not enough Indians.” Creedy mutters.

Joshua, who is closest to the barn door, adds what else they’ve got is bad weather. “Looks like freezing rain.” That news settles like a weight on all the Hunters. Even if they get out of the barn, the roads will most likely be too slick to travel.

“What we need is a coordinated plan of attack taking all that in,” Bobby suggests, “and we need to keep the plan quiet enough that the freaking monster doesn’t know about it ahead of time.” And as much as he hates to – John agrees. The men found out during their first escape attempt that the monster is listening to every word they say.

Grumbling, John draws his journal out and turns to a blank page as the men huddle and begin to draw out a plan. They know the bad weather and early sunset work against them, and if they don’t make it out soon it is likely the monster will be able to pick them off one by one.

. . . . . . .

Traveling softly, Dean stops when he scents smoke drifting low because of the cold rain. He has kept the flashlight off relying on the low light and his night vision. An advantage Dean has is that he moves as softly as prey animals. His size has become part of his protection. The Wendigo is not expecting trouble to come from a small creature. In fact, the cannibal is still intent on getting back into her lair and not looking out behind her at all.

Drawing closer, but staying close to trees and surrounded by brush, Dean halts when he sees movement in the shadow outside an old barn door. By avoiding looking toward the dim light from inside, the boy manages to make out the form hunkered just outside the structure about twenty-five feet away. While he can’t make out details, he sees enough to know that the form is abnormally tall and thin, its joints leaning back like a preying mantis as he watches through a gap in the boards.

Dean eyes trace the structure and follow along the outline noting that most of the old barn is tucked into a hillside. He also hears men’s voices murmuring inside, and notes that the smell of decomposition is strong enough here that it should mask the smell of one small human. All he has to do is move into place on top of the hill and get the drop on the creature. He wishes he had some way of knowing what the older hunters have planned, but he’s pretty sure what he’s seeing is that the men are trapped inside the structure.

Dean can’t stop himself from praying that his dad is in there, and that he’s okay.


	14. Chapter 14

November 26, 1988

Nine-year-old Dean Winchester moving through the freezing rain in the Mark Twain National Forest at night to confront a monster and save his father is a bit small for his age, but as far from a child as he can be. He learned to shoot four years ago, and he learned it with the intent to take a life if that was needed to protect his family. He studied monster lore to be able to kill them and with more intensity than other little boys studied dinosaurs or baseball. It is this mindset even more than his father’s military-style training that makes Dean the perfect little soldier.

Childhood trauma does strange things to people. Some never overcome it, mentally or emotionally freezing at the age they experience it, or even splintering into multiple personalities or extreme neurosis. Dean’s mind had teetered on collapse with the fire and his mother’s death. His extreme stress reaction, mutism, and nightmares were symptoms. At age four Dean had learned that the things of horror stories were real. His reaction was to latch onto what he had left of his safe haven, his brother and his father. Adding to the emotional and mental trials Dean faced was his father’s coping method; John’s retreat into alcohol pushed Dean even further into the role of an adult. Years later his younger brother would sometimes snort at what he considered his older sibling’s childish antics, never fully understanding that each act was a gift of trust in him from Dean.

This small lethal weapon moves carefully to avoid slipping on slick fallen leaves, mud, and icy rocks. Dean flanks the barn, finding an incline he cautiously climbs. His fingers stiffen from the cold, and several times the boy stops to rub them together and keep the circulation moving. He has pulled the hood of his dark blue jacket up over his head and tightened the strings, grateful for the warm waterproof garment that Pastor Jim gave him. He’s happy with the boots too, even though the leather lets some water through, he knows his old sneakers had lost their tread and wouldn’t have allowed him any traction.

As Dean draws closer to the front, he moves onto his belly, ignoring the cold mud that covers him while low crawling to the edge. His eyes are the only colorful thing left on him with his unintended camouflage. The boy freezes in place, barely moving as his eyes sweep back and forth over the area where he last saw the Wendigo. Finally the monster moves and the motion allows him to locate it.

The monster moves toward a large Maple tree, climbing it with incredible speed and skill, as sinewy as a snake with a poison grace. Dean’s heart races as the Wendigo pauses before settling into a fork almost parallel to his own position where it can watch the entrance to the old barn. It perches like a cat watching a mouse hole, preternaturally still. Dean lowers his eyes knowing that many things and some people can feel the weight of a stare. He breathes shallowly, trying to control every motion, willing his pounding heart to slow before it gives him away. He moves his hand smoothly at a steady rate to his pocket and, holding his breath, he sneaks the flare gun out.

Dean wishes he had some way to communicate with the men inside the barn, some way to know for sure whether or not his father is even still alive, but the young Hunter doesn’t allow himself much time to think or to regret. He sights across the gap and pulls the trigger.

In movies and television, a flare gun will blow a hole in a person or explode causing a major fire. In real life flares are used to signal and run on a small rocket motor. The exhaust propels the flare but not at speeds that can punch through or even embed itself in a body. Flare guns are dangerous, more often burning the shooter than anyone else. Dean’s hand is slightly scorched, and he cries out in pain and surprise. But he is lucky; the flare hits its intended target, snarling in the tangled and matted hair. The Wendigo’s head catches fire even as it leaps toward the small boy.

The Hunters inside the barn hear the yell, and Bobby Singer leads Creedy and Joshua, the less injured men, out of the rickety structure in time to see a small form thrown from the top. The men lift their flamethrowers and fire as the crazed Wendigo jumps down after it. She whirls towards them, but the air circulation just helps the flame grow engulfing her head. The monster falls to the ground, and through the sputtering inferno the men watch as the small figure lifts a machete in its right hand and brings it down chopping off the monster’s head.

Dean drops the weapons and groans, his right arm now cradling his left. He looks up blinking blearily. “My dad?”

Creedy is stomping out small fires trying valiantly to spread through the cold rain. Joshua hasn’t moved, staring amazed at the small figure. Bobby rushes to take the trembling boy into his arms, but pulls back when Dean cries out in pain. He shepherds the boy into the building trying to undo his jacket at the same time so he can triage the injuries.

John Winchester gasps in surprise as he sees the small figure, and then again in pain as the boys hurtles into him. “Dean?” John moves him back slightly to get a better look. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Adrenaline release, pain, and shock have Dean trembling on his knees by his father with tears running down his muddy face. John notices the boy’s holding his left arm still, and with gentle fingers he pushes the coat down to see a shoulder knocked out of its joint. John explains this to his son and then grasps him firmly pushing it back into place. Dean cries out in pain, and his father shushes him.

“Come on son, man up. You can’t be a Hunter if you’re going to cry about being hurt.” But even as the harsh words leave his mouth, John gathers Dean closer, checking him for other injuries gently, relieved to find only bumps and bruises. He takes the backpack off the boy, not surprised at all that it contains a first aid kit. John pulls out a sling and fits it on the boy, tightening straps before using it to immobilize Dean’s left arm. He strips Dean’s wet jacket the rest of the way off and wraps the emergency blanket around his son. Then he buttons his own jacket onto the boy.

The other Hunters have left John with his son, hearing but not seeing their interaction. What he heard has Bobby angrily muttering about assholes who don’t deserve to be fathers as he drags the Wendigo’s remains over to the pile of dead bodies and pieces. Joshua tosses the scorched head onto the pile and then goes to help John up. With Creedy helping Harvelle, Joshua takes his place as a human crutch for John, and Dean trailing behind swaddled in his father’s coat, the hunting party exits the barn and starts toward the parking lot.

Bobby joins them after throwing salt and then dumping the rest of the fuel from the flame throwers onto the bodies. He takes the flare gun and loads a fresh round, shooting it into the bodies and kindling the pyre. A Hunter’s funeral is fitting because at least three of the bodies are Hunters. The other victims, well, at least their spirits won’t be trapped in the place of their cruel deaths. The rain will make sure the fire doesn’t spread.

. . . . . . .

Sun rise the next morning finds five men and a boy still asleep, sharing the one room in an impromptu slumber party necessitated by the ice storm. The big dark haired man opens his eyes first to find Dean has curled on his right side next to his father on the sofa bed last night. Happier memories of bringing home his first-born son shoot pains through John’s very soul. This boy with his big heart is so much like his mother; and John feels compelled to do everything he can to make sure Dean will be able to survive.

John’s brows pucker as he listens to the congestion in his son’s light snoring. Bobby had told him Dean has been sick, and the boy’s journey through freezing rain last night couldn’t have helped that any. John insisted on Dean having a hot shower before bed last night, helping the embarrassed boy into flannel pajamas before dosing him with Nyquil to knock him out and give John time to think. John is so grateful to the boy, and that the little boy is safe, but he steels himself for what he must do later. Right now though, he gathers the boy closer and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Hunters always have a variety of tools stash in their cars, and John uses a cane Harvelle had in his toolbox to limp into the restroom to get ready for the day. As soon as the roads are clear he’ll be heading to Minnesota to get Sammy.

. . . . . . .

“You’re gonna make him do what?” Bobby Singer is fighting mad at John Winchester yet again. He has just set up chains for Bill Harvelle to tow the big black car behind his pick up the 600 mile journey back to Jim Murphy’s place in Blue Earth. The older man cannot believe his ears. John has been chewing Dean out, accusing the boy of abandoning his primary job – looking after Sam. And then John tells Dean that as soon as the kid is recovered from his injury, he’ll be running extra laps for penance.

“That boy just saved our hides.” Bobby continues his rant. “He held things together for you for weeks with no money for food and holes in his shoes. He kept his head when plenty of grown men would’a been flapping around like headless chickens. He’s a kid, John. Just a kid. Can’t you see by looking at him how much he needs you?” As Bobby draws in breath to continue, a small voice stops him.

“Uncle Bobby, stop, please. Dad’s right.” Dean stands trembling before his dad. “I’ve been worried about Sammy too, Sir. I shouldn’t have left him. I’ll do better next time.”

“See that you do,” John says.

Bobby looks at Harvelle who just shrugs. The guy from Nebraska has no intention of interfering with how John Winchester is raising his kid. He just swears to himself that Joanna Beth will never be involved.

“You are a….” Bobby starts, but looks at the boy standing next to the dark haired man and clamps his mouth shut. “If you need anything, boy, you call me, hear? I at least know when to be grateful.” Stomping off to his own car, Bobby peals away to head back to South Dakota.

. . . . . . .

John and Bill Harvelle talk occasionally during the ten hour trip back to Minnesota, while Dean who sits between the two men – thanks to NyQuil - spends much of the time dozing next to his father’s side. Bill sees John settle the boy more comfortably against him, and he can tell how much the man loves the boy.

The men talk about the Wendigo and other hunts, Harvelle’s eyes darting to the boy frequently. Finally he says “I don’t get it, Winchester. Most father’s’d be proud of that boy. What he did. Shoot. I’d rather have him at my back than several other guys we know who call themselves Hunters. You’re damned hard on him when he’s awake, but look at you now. I just….well, it ain’t my business, but I just don’t understand.”

John looks over at Harvelle, and then he looks out the window. Harvelle’s beginning to think John isn’t going to answer at all.  “I can’t be kind. Kindness won’t keep him or his brother alive.”

Harvelle grunts. “Kindness might give him something worth living for.”

John Winchester snorts. “He’s got Sammy for that. They both – they’ve got each other. And that’s going to have to be enough.”


End file.
